


Creatures of Old

by simthemuse



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, BAMF!Merlin, Bromance, Eventual Magic Reveal, Gen, Good!Mordred, Hurt/Comfort, Merlin can and will throw hands, Merlin decides to be nice to Mordred, Merlin is a bro, Mostly Gen, Season/Series 05, brief amnesia, but that's nothing new, but the whole conquering camelot with an iron fist thing doesnt make any sense, ever think it's weird how Morgana became so mean?, knights of the round table - Freeform, like i get wanting to kill Uther and return magic, like references to romance but nothing big, merlin suffers a LOT, mild gore but for like one chapter, ocs but only when necessary, post-5.03, so we're gonna dive deeper into why she's Like That, the knights get backstories and character development, wyverns probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-01-11 21:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 36,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18432848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simthemuse/pseuds/simthemuse
Summary: Merlin changes the course of destiny. Whether for better or worse remains to be seen.Featuring: a knight who won't stay dead, a grudge, an identity crisis, a morally dubious cousin, a troubled past, a horde of flesh-eating skeletons, daddy issues, and maybe a little bit of friendship along the way.And suffering. Lots of suffering.





	1. Reminiscent

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my first fic in the Merlin fandom! I've been planning this one for a while now, so it's nice to get it out of my system.  
> I'm also going to be doing something a bit different that I've never done with fanfiction yet, or really writing in general. I'm challenging myself to make each chapter at least 15k words. So far, writing longer chapters helps encourage me to actually post and complete content. Here's hoping I see this through!  
> Note: the song Gwaine is singing at the feast is called "Nil Sen La" by Celtic Woman.

****Her breathing was uneven and heavy. Her gut twisted and her every muscle throbbed, blood trickling down onto the forest foliage. She leaned into a gnarled, blackened tree, trying and failing to catch just one fleeting breath.

She placed a shaky hand on her pregnant bump. “Just a bit..f-further,” she stammered out. It was hard to tell if who she was trying to comfort, her or her unborn child.

And so, she began running once more.

A pain erupted, so pointed and intense that she wasn’t sure if it came from exhaustion or labour. Perhaps a mix of both. She shoved a fist into her mouth to hold back the screams of agony, face becoming red and flooded with tears.

Her knees gave, and one hand flew to protect her stomach. She didn’t remove her other hand from her mouth, even as her knuckles bled, lest she make a noise and alert _them_ of her location.

She needed to get home. But how? It was dark, and she could see scarcely a thing with what little moonlight flitted through the dense canopy above. Guiding her path by analyzing the stars wasn’t an option either, for the same reasons.

Another pain, like a dozen knives stabbing upward into her, and she bit down harder on her hand. The taste of iron filled her mouth, but that didn’t matter.

If she could just make it until morning, if she could just have a bit of light to guide her, she could make it home.

Search dogs howled in the distance, scaring her tears into silence.

The pain racked through her again, more massive and bloated this time. Whimpers escaped her throat, despite her best efforts to smother herself. _They_ were getting closer. She couldn’t afford to get caught, her baby couldn’t afford to get caught.

She just needed to get home…

Blurry shapes shifted in the corner of her half-lidded gaze, and she flinched. No. Those looked like torches. _No!_

Still supported by the gnarled tree, she scrambled backwards. “S-stay aw-away!” A protruding root snagged on her back and caused her to slip. The pain squeezed her hips. Dribbles of blood leaked onto the leaves and dirt beneath her, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting away, _away!_ from those horrible men who wanted her baby -

Wait.

Those weren’t lanterns. Those weren’t even men, or anything alive for that matter.

Hovering at knee-height above the ground was an orb. A glassy, glowing sphere, with magnificent tendrils of white and blue swirling within it. It hummed with a pleasant, playful melody, trilling out like a windchime.

Momentarily forgetting herself, she reached a hand out to touch it. The moment her fingers graced its warm, slick, buzzing surface, a pulse of...something shot through her bones. The pain abated, if only a bit.

Flashes caught her vision. Like flames in the dark, a trail of similar orbs sprung up further into the forest. All of them hovering, all of them dancing as though swayed by a breeze.

Her pain, though still present and bleeding her near to death, was halved by whatever magic had just overcome her.

“D-do…” she started to ask, and crawled closer to the orb on her hands and knees. She smacked her cracked, thirsty lips. “...do you want m-me to foll-l-low yo-ou?”

The orb paused, flickered, then bobbed up and down twice. It let out an upbeat trill.

“Shh!” she hissed, pressing a finger to her mouth. “They’ll find m-me.”

But the orb didn’t seem to know or care about her pursuers. It just vanished as abruptly as it had arrived.

Her legs shook like an earthquake, but with great difficulty she maneuvered herself upright. One step. Another step. Though her knees buckled countless times, and her bare soles pounded with blisters, she did not relent.

Just as she came close to the next orb in the line, it vanished as well. She made forward in a similar manner towards the next orb, and the next, and the next, and so on until it felt like she’d been walking for infinity.

Even with the numb thrall of the orbs pillowing her from all sides, another shock of agony struck her lower half once more, this time enough to collapse her outright. She had her face smashed into dirt and detritus, but didn’t trust her strength to pull herself back up. So there she lay, face-down and quivering with the deadliest pain of her life.

“H-hu-urts-s,” she tremored out, teeth chattering despite the lukewarm air. “M-make...pain-n...go…”

This time, when she screamed, she hadn’t the time to throw her hand between her jaws. This time, when she screamed, it was more of a pathetic, dying whine.

For what felt like centuries, she remained there, swallowed by darkness, consumed by rawness and an ever-trickling vein of blood, unmoving. Distantly, she could sense the presence of more orbs circling in around her. Distantly, she could feel the blood stop, and the pain ease. Distantly, she could hear the orb’s honeyed, friendly chimes trill with concern. Distantly, she wondered if this was what it was like to die.

But she wasn’t dead, nor was she close. In fact, she felt a little less bloated than she had in months. Had it - had it worked?  
Quivering like an autumn leaf about to fall, she rolled onto her backside to inspect the situation. There, between her knees, was a lump of flesh. It was bloody and wet and wrinkled like a prune. It had little claw-like hands, too small to wrap around anything but its own rigid thumbs. Its body was wrapped up into a still, lifeless coil.

_Lifeless._

She cradled its fragile - far too fragile - body in her hands. It was small enough that she could almost fit it entirely in her fist.

_Lifeless._

Her unsteady fingers groped at its neck for a pulse, her ear flew to its bloody chest for a beat.

_Lifeless._

She didn’t have enough tears left in her to cry. Her baby was dead, _dead_ , and she was too weak to mourn. Instead, she collapsed back onto the ground, clutching her baby to her chest as though the slightest breath would collapse its skin. It certainly seemed fragile enough.

The orbs hovered in closer, swaying and swinging, calling out to her with a chorus of hopefulness between them. They wrapped her in a warm, light sensation, but she found she didn’t care. She was tired, and bloody, and her baby was dead, and she wanted to be dead too.

_Lifeless_.

One of the orbs grazed against her hand, and she flinched back, eyes flung open. It hovered over her baby’s papery skull, and the light’s glassy sheen began to unravel. Part of her felt that she ought to tug her baby away from the orb, run away and never look back, but something about the orb’s warmth felt...trustworthy. Honest. Safe.

The orb continued to unravel itself, wisps of light spreading out like a shiny, glittering mist around her. The mist swirled in graceful curls, before a thumb-sized echo of a hand print emerged from its depths, reaching out to touch her cheek. A wash of calm tingled all the way down to her toes, but just as she reached up to touch the mist-hand…

All the mist, which had spread far throughout the forest, retracted at once. A steamy, pressurized hiss roared in her ears as the mist condensed once more, all of it flying straight into her baby’s mouth.

Once the mist had completely evaporated into her baby’s cold form, the orbs all drew closer in curiosity. She turned the baby’s face towards her, its mouth still ajar.

For a few moments, nothing happened.

But then, the baby’s muscles relaxed, and its flesh grew warm, and its eyes fluttered open.

_Gold_ . Its eyes were beacons of glittering, sparkling treasure. The colour of a bandit’s vault, of a treasure chest, of a king’s bag of coins. So gold, so luminous, so _remarkable_ , that her breath caught in her throat at the sheer magic of it.

Because that’s what it was. Magic.

How could anyone find something this beautiful to be evil?  
Then, the gold faded, and a new colour emerged.

Blue.

The blue of his father. The blue of a crystalline sky. The blue of a steady, peaceful ocean. The blue of mysterious depths, of royal jewels, of a reflective glass pond on a summer day.

The baby’s eyes closed again as it let out a squealing cry, and she became choked by her own sobs of relief.

_Alive._

A laugh tumbled from her lips, not caring about the search hounds and the angry bounty hunters. It was just her, the magical lights protecting her, and her beautiful baby boy.

She placed a hand on his soft but bloody cheek, and somehow found the strength to cry. The orbs spun and danced and sang around her, and she had never felt safer.

“Merlin. I shall call you Merlin.”

* * *

“ _Merlin!”_

A young man in his late twenties poked a cheeky grin into the doorway. “Yes, sire?” He ducked as a pillow launched into his face.

“How many _times_ have I _told_ you! I am the _king of Camelot_ and you can’t just feed me table scraps!”

“Aw,” said the man - Merlin - with a mock pout. “But we need to keep you in shape. That way you can impress all your lovely visitors. You do have to entertain Lord Austin and Lady Austin this afternoon. Don’t you want to make a good impression?”

Another pillow. He swept them both up surreptitiously before walking further into his master’s chamber.

“I don’t have time for this.” The man who had thrown the pillows, a 30-year-old with a striking head of blonde hair and deceptively soft eyes, threw his arms into the air. Arthur was his name, and he spent most of his days constantly reminding Merlin that he was ‘king of Camelot’. If Merlin had a coin for every time Arthur brought up his status, then Merlin himself could be king.

Of course, if Merlin ever did become king, there was no way in hell he’d get a servant. He could clean up after himself just fine, thank you very much.

“No, you don’t,” Merlin agreed. “You need to hurry if you want to get to that council meeting in time to have lunch before Lord Austin shows.”

Arthur’s face lit up with exasperation. “And whose fault is that, do you suppose?”

Merlin broke into a bright grin that was always so unpleasantly cheerful. “Not mine.” He hurried out of the room with the laundry basket before Arthur could throw anything else at him. He was chuckling softly to himself even as he half-skipped down the castle corridors.

He took the time to wave at Larry. Stopped to have a quick gossip chat with Nora and Olga, who told him about Nancy and Wes’s recent love affair in the broom cupboard. Exchanged formal hellos with the chamberlain Setton, but immediately rectified this by chuckling about Setton’s strange hair with Ethan. When George caught them, he gave them a firm glare of reprimand, and they went their separate ways.

“Ah, Merlin!” cooed a familiar voice. “Have you seen Gwaine?”

Merlin paused his brief chat with the new chimney sweep Raster, to face a man with chainmail and a scruffy blonde beard. “About now he’s usually pawing off a hangover tonic from Gaius.”

The man, Sir Leon, sighed and cast his head down in defeat. “That man. Sometimes I wonder how he’s not been stripped of his knighthood.”

“I don’t think that’d do much,” Merlin said. He shifted the laundry basket over to his other hip. “No matter how many times Arthur sends him away, he just keeps coming back.”

“That he does,” said Leon with a chuckle. He patted Merlin on the shoulder before walking away. “As you were, then.”

And so Merlin wrapped up his conversation with Raster, warned Willow about the mouse problem down in the eastern wing, and finally - _finally_ \- found himself at the laundry room. Lady Godwin’s maid Mera sat beside him, washing out a wine-stained dress, and the two spent their time talking about the food fight at last month’s feast. Although, the wine stains hadn’t come from that, but rather the lady getting remarkably sloshed the other night. Merlin suspected she had again invited Gwaine to her chambers for a bottle (or five), but he kept this to himself.

The rest of his day passed in a similar way: polishing Arthur’s armour out on the training pitch so he could watch the knights fool around, standing behind Arthur while Lord and Lady Austin arrived, striking up an amiable conversation with Lord Austin’s manservant Jacob, bantering with Arthur over lunch, humming as he tidied up the king’s chambers, then delivering a few potions to the lower town. Haggle reported that her grandson had gotten over his cold, Oliver’s chickens looked healthy again, and Arnold needed help fixing the wheel on his cart.

What a wonderful, mundane day.

Really, this had been such a calm month for him. Arthur was upset and antsy at there being nothing to hack his sword at, not even a bandit, while Merlin could do nothing but smile. A month. A _month!_ Where nothing went wrong. No assassins, or sorcerers, or Morgana, or magical beasts, or traitors. Sure, Sir Jameson was giving him hell, and Lord Friar kept trying to sell war plans to King Alined. But that was par for the course.

Merlin had done the impossible. He’d gone a full month - four weeks, thirty whole days, can you believe it - where no one threatened Camelot or its people. The days of almost dying seemed like a distant, bitter memory.

For the first few days, he missed it. You never realize how much time you spend fighting assassins and breaking curses, until you’re sitting in your room with nothing better to do.

But then he found some constructive ways to spend his time, and he didn’t look back.

Would the peace last? No. This was Camelot, for crying out loud. But like hell if he wasn’t taking advantage of the calm while it lasted.

* * *

 

It was late, and there was a banquet to welcome the Austins. Arthur’s speech was brief, and Gwaine wasted no time getting drunk. Somehow, he roped Percival, Elyan, Mordred, Caradoc, and Bors into some kind of drinking challenge. So, naturally, they all busied themselves singing garbled half-lyrics to some bar song Gwaine had learned and forgotten.

_“Fill the glasses one more time,”_ they chanted out, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders and swaying side to side. _“And never heed the empty bottle.”_

_“Turn the - hic! - wine to wine,”_ Gwaine drawled out, slurred tones louder than anyone else’s. _“And turn the party up - hic! - full throttle!_ Oi, princess, sing wi’me!”

Arthur let out a pained sigh, and rested his head in his hands. “Merlin, can you go handle him or something?”

Merlin finished refilling Arthur’s goblet with a clever smirk. “The day anyone can ‘handle’ Gwaine is the day the world ends.”

Gwen chuckled beside him, and Arthur still pretended he wasn’t amused. But Merlin could see the humourous twinkle in his eyes and the slightest upturn of his mouth. “Just go deal with the situation. I don’t want to leave a bad impression on our guests.”

The guests in question seemed heartened and endeared to the knights’ antics more than anything, but Merlin said nothing of it.

Pitcher-holding arm folded behind his back, Merlin curtly strutted up to the knights at their table.

_“It’s not day nor yet a while,”_ they all sang out, off-key and out of unison. _“I can see the starlight_ \- oh, hey Mer!”

Merlin straightened his shoulders and scowled with his best Arthur impression. “I ought to have you in the stocks for this.”

The group of drunk knights all stared at him flatly for a hot second, before breaking into a fit of tumbling laughter. Even some of the sober knights struggled to keep a straight face, while Arthur just looked on in thinly veiled contempt. Merlin tried to grin knowingly at his master, but it was hard to do much of anything while laughing so hard.

Gwaine wiped a few tears from his eyes. “A-alright, mate, I get the idea. Princess - hic! - wants me to turn it down, eh?”

Leon rose to his feet and stretched. “We should probably get you lot back to your chambers before you do any lasting damage, then.” Everyone’s minds retraced back to last month’s food fight, and a collective shudder fell over the group. Merlin was still cleaning grime out of his neckerchiefs even now, and rotting food scraps could occasionally be found lurking in the oddest corners of the castle (even the armory).

Sir Lionel, a man with narrow green eyes and slick blonde hair, rose up alongside Leon. “Alright, I’ll take Bors and Elyan back to their chambers.”

Already easing Gwaine out of his chair with the grace of a man who has done this many, many times, Merlin said, “I’ve got Gwaine and Percival.”

“No,” said Leon. “Percival is too massive and unwieldy for you to wrangle. I’ll take care of Percival and Caradoc, if you escort Mordred back to his chambers instead.”

A shiver ran down Merlin’s spine, even with Gwaine lolling his head playfully into the servant’s shoulder, giggling girlishly. “Eeeyy, Mordy! Come join the party!”

“That rhymes,” slurred Sir Caradoc, who was as impossibly mountainous as Percival. Leon certainly had his work cut out for him with both Percival _and_ Caradoc, but Leon was also a great deal stronger than he looked. Easily the strongest knight after Percival.

“Naw it don’, Cardy you loon,” came Elyan’s woozy reply. He wavered on his feet and almost fell over, before Lionel swooped in to grab him by the back.

Mordred. They wanted him to escort... _Mordred_...back to his chambers.

Merlin swallowed hard, and tried to banish all memories of the sword and the sky and the blood and the flesh and the look of contempt in Mordred’s eyes as Arthur falls falls falls choking and shaking and drowning in a pool of his own -

“Of course,” said Merlin in a false tone. “C’mon, Mordred, let’s get you to bed.”

Lionel, Leon, and Merlin each collected their self-assigned escorts (with Leon eventually getting Sir Daniel to help with Percival), and split off.

Merlin, also a great deal stronger than he looked, managed to keep the stockily built Sir Gwaine on one shoulder and the lean but solid Sir Mordred on the other. It was a struggle, as Gwaine kept trying to wander down the halls and kept wolf-whistling at the kitchen maids, and Mordred wouldn’t stop singing traditional druid songs (“Have y’ heard this one, Eeeeemrys?”). But Merlin had been putting up with Arthur for ten years, and bailing Gwaine out of taverns for six; even if he didn’t have the power to kill an entire army on a whim, wrangling two drunk knights was well within his capacity.

Despite really, really not wanting to be alone with Mordred and the...vision...it was seeming like he would have to. If he wanted to get this whole escorting business done with any efficiency, he’d go to Gwaine’s room first and then drop off Mordred further down. The feast was coming to a close, and Arthur would want his bath drawn before tuckering off to bed. Not that Merlin usually minded making Arthur wait, but tonight he wanted some quality time with Gwen, and Merlin wouldn’t get in the way of that. So time was of the essence then. Which meant he’d have to endure Mordred by himself.

After easing Gwaine into his unmade bed (he always insisted against servants) and promising to give him a hangover tonic the next morning, Merlin set off on the least anticipated stretch of his night.

Being alone with Mordred.

There was nothing wrong with Mordred in and of himself, per se. He was a good man, a great knight, and had a noble heart. In a lot of ways, he actually reminded Merlin of Lancelot. Or perhaps the exhaustion was getting to him.

Merlin tried to hate Mordred. He truly did. But then Mordred would almost best Arthur in a fight, and then turn to Merlin with a puppy-like smile and ask, “So, Merlin? How’d I do?” And for the briefest of moments, he’d forget what the boy was destined to become.

Heaven help him, Mordred didn’t even _know_. Didn’t know that whenever he got all serious and concentrated in a duel, the expression on his face would rocket Merlin back to the vision. Back to the blood and pain and death. He was psyching Merlin out and he wasn’t even aware of it.

Merlin tried not to get attached, tried not to let himself grow fond of the young knight, knowing his betrayal would only hurt in the end. But then Mordred would say something funny in the war room, or offer to go herb-collecting on a sunny afternoon, or convince Arthur not to antagonize his servant so much. And then Merlin would have to breathe, and distance himself, and try to hate the boy without actually hating him.

It was hard. And given how much Merlin had been through, that was saying something.

Stumbling along at Merlin’s side, Mordred kept his eyes on the ground with the aim of walking in a straight line. The line was anything but straight, of course. But it was the way his jaw set in determination as he stared so intently at the ground, that had Merlin nearly recoiling in fear.

Breathe. In. Out. This wasn’t the man from the vision. Not yet. Arthur wasn’t dead. Not yet.

“Remind me again,” said Merlin, trying to keep his voice light. “Do I turn left up here or right?”

Mordred gave a lax smile and gestured to the right. “That wayyyyy.” A giggle. “Kaaaaaara wouldn’t believe me if I told her. The great _Emrys_ iiiiis walking me home like I’m a laaaady.”

If Merlin didn’t turn his head down and just looked straight ahead, he could forget the face he was walking beside. Just another knight, Merlin, nothing special here. “Yes, and the ‘great Emrys’ is telling you to stop calling him that, unless you want people to hear.”

“Pssh, what? Whoooo’s gonna hear me?” He pushed Merlin away and sloppily cupped his hands. “Heeeeellooooooo! Anybody hear meeeee?”

The faintest of voices, the voice of Timothy the guard, shouted out from down the hall, “Go to sleep, Mordred!”

Mordred laughed, and Merlin couldn’t help but laugh too. Just so long as he didn’t look at that face, he could laugh.

It, admittedly, was rather hilarious to see the normally reserved Sir Mordred acting so _Gwainesque_ , as Elyan called it. It almost made him forget who he was escorting.

“Sorry Timothy!” Merlin shouted back. “I’ll get him right to bed!”

Merlin pulled one of the knight’s arms over his shoulder, and semi-dragged him down the corridor like one would an injured soldier. Mordred spent the rest of the walk just babbling on, code-switching into the Old Tongue once and again, talking about nothing in particular. It wasn’t until Merlin was laying Mordred onto his bed that things got interesting.

“Everyone used to haaaaate me back in my camp,” Mordred said, eyes fluttering closed and voice breathy. His hand had a firm grip on Merlin’s sleeve. “Don’t know whyyyy, but they all looked at me like I was some kind of moooonster.” His eyes snapped open, his gaze roaming wildly around the room. Merlin did his best not to flinch away. “I used to have dreeeeaaaams, Emrys. About killing a guy. Take my sword and stab him in the guuuuuut. Wheeeen I told my dad about it, thaaaat’s when people started hating me.”

Sword. Sky. Blood. Face. Gut.

“That wasn’t very nice of them,” said Merlin. He clawed at Mordred’s fingers, almost frantically, but the grip would not ease off his jacket.

“Nooope.” Mordred popped the ‘p’. “You know - you know - you know what’s suuuper strange, though?”

“Hmm.” Merlin had half a mind to knock him out with magic, but morbid curiosity held him back.

Sword. Sky. Blood. Face. Gut.

“Back a looooong time ago, when you saaaaved me, remember?”

“Mm.” Merlin didn’t trust himself to speak with actual words, lest he hurl.

Sword. Sky. Blood. Face. Gut. Blood. _Blood. BLOOD._

“The guy in myyyyy dreams, he looked so much like Arrrrthurrr. I try not to thiiiiiiiink about it.” Mordred laughed. “Crazy right?”

He swallowed hard, and placed a hand on Mordred’s shoulder. _Not_ looking him in the eye. “Get some rest, Mordred.” And then Merlin turned away, and shut his eyes, and tried so so hard not to think about that damn vision.

_BLOOD_

“Emrys,” said Mordred suddenly. Merlin didn’t turn back to face him, just froze in the half-open doorway.

“Yes.”

“Is that why yoooou hate me?”

“What do you mean?”

_BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD_

“Naw, you don’t haaaate me,” Mordred said thoughtfully. “You’re…”

It was actually heartbreaking to hear such a happy drunk turn so small and shattered, as though he sobered within a snap.

“...afraid of me.”

Was he afraid of Mordred?

_BLOOD BLOOD SO MUCH BLOOD ARTHUR IS DYING AND YOU CAN’T STOP IT HE’S DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD DE_

No. He was not.

* * *

 

No matter how much Merlin tossed and turned that night, he failed to get Mordred’s drunken words out of his head.

Even with their shared history and similar abilities, they never shared much personal information with each other. Merlin had, sometimes regrettably, made sure of that. So yes, Merlin knew he was once a druid, knew he once had powerful magic that had atrophied over the years, and knew that he used to admire Morgana before she became twisted. Sometimes, on the good days when Merlin wasn’t quite as shaken by that _damn vision_ , he would let Mordred tell him bits and pieces about his life with the druids. And that was about it.

But this? This mention of being treated like a monster, even among his own kind? The dreams he had as a child so uncannily similar to the vision? His heartbroken tone at realizing Merlin was, supposedly, afraid of him?

Try as he did, Merlin would not be getting much sleep that night. Not that that was anything new.

He rolled onto his side.

What were the facts?

From the sounds of it, Mordred had known as a child that he would have a terrible destiny. He may not have known the extent of it, or who his victim would be, but bottom line: he knew. He had seen and been traumatized by the same vision currently haunting Merlin. And talking about it with his people, druids for crying out loud, had caused them to shun him.

Just as Merlin was doing now.

No. Sure, his heart might ache for the young ex-druid, even more than it usually did, but that was no excuse. Mordred was a future enemy. One did not go fraternizing with the enemy.

Or did he? He had denied Morgana’s destiny once before, all so he could have her friendship. He did everything he could to turn the other cheek and pretend she wasn’t going to be evil. He plugged his fingers into his ears, didn’t heed Kilgharrah’s warnings, and now they had a witch running loose.

But that wasn’t entirely true. He _did_ heed Kilgharrah’s warnings to an extent. Afraid of what she might do or become, he naively followed orders and didn’t help her when she needed it. And then he poisoned her for her troubles.

Merlin shoved his face into the pillow, groaning at the thought of his own mistakes. God, would this disturbed feeling of remorse ever let go of him? Part of him hoped it would, but the rest of him knew that if he stopped regretting, then he stopped being a good person. Surrounded by murder and death, regret was the only thing keeping him human.

As human as ‘Emrys’ could be, anyway. Sometimes he wondered if Gaius and his mother were wrong, and he was a monster after all.

A thought to entertain another night, perhaps.

But Mordred had to entertain those thoughts too, didn’t he? Being antagonized and demonized by his own people, because they feared what he would do.

Yes, Merlin would admit it. He was afraid too.

The Great and Powerful Emrys wasn’t supposed to be afraid, though. He’d faced dragons, witches, magic snakes, undead armies, slave traders, bandits, and a really, really bratty king. A precocious ex-druid destined for darkness was nothing.

But it wasn’t _nothing_ nothing. Nothing ever was _nothing_ in this godforsaken kingdom. Because as benign as Mordred was now, he had the potential to kill Merlin’s best friend and rip away everything that made life worth living. His whole reason to exist would be gone with a snap, and it would all be the fault of Sir Mordred.

What was the way to go about fate? The Crystal Cave and Kilgharrah had taught him that nothing could truly be prevented, that trying to change fate was like running in place. Exhausting and ultimately pointless.

With Morgana, he had shied away from the ugly truth. But then in leaving her alone and afraid of herself, he wound up corralling her straight into Morgause’s arms. The hemlock only exacerbated this at best, and caused it at worst.

So surely, by accepting fate at face value, by acknowledging what Mordred would become instead of denying it, then he could fix things?

Augh, that didn’t even make any sense in his own head. How was accepting Mordred’s villainy supposed to prevent what he would _do_ with that villainy? If Merlin was so dead set on preventing _Arthur’s_ destiny, then what justified shunning Mordred for his? Why couldn’t he change _both_ their fates? Why couldn’t he save everyone?

Merlin sat upright, rubbing his temples. Sometimes ignorance was bliss. Then he didn’t have to make weighted decisions like this. At least if he didn’t know what Mordred would become, he could have a pleasant relationship with him, and be pleasantly crestfallen over his eventual betrayal.

He couldn’t ask Kilgharrah, because he would only say that Mordred was too dangerous to live. And as much as Merlin wanted Arthur to survive, he didn’t want to have to kill Mordred to ensure it. He would, if push came to shove, but Merlin could only pray that it never did.

What would Lancelot do?

Lancelot would smile and pat him on the back, and tell him to judge a man for what he has already done, not what some codgy old lizard _said_ he would do.

Okay, maybe Lancelot wouldn’t word it quite like that, but the sentiment remained.

Thanks, mental Lancelot. Even from the grave he’s still being useful. Sort of.

Maybe he could change the script this time. Maybe if he warned Mordred about his future, about why everyone hated him in his youth, maybe Merlin would have a shot at fixing things. That was the one thing that he didn’t do with Morgana. He never warned her of what she’d become. But if he informed Mordred…

Well, if nothing else he wouldn’t have to make all these impending-doom decisions on his own.

A weight lifted off his chest. The chance to not hate Mordred shined brightly before him. Yes, that’s what he would do.

He had become jaded by years of conflict and destiny, but he would not grow bitter. He _could not_ grow bitter.

And if Mordred came into his destiny despite Merlin’s efforts to the contrary, then at least he could say he did his best.

* * *

 

Sir Degore was a small, nimble person, like a kitchen maid in physique but with more muscle tone and a full beard. His hair was shaggy and black, and his eyes were a friendly brown.

Well, friendly when he wasn’t fighting against you. Which Sir Degore happened to be doing at the moment.

“Do you yield?” he asked, dull spear aimed at Mordred’s jugular.

Mordred waved it off to the side with the back of his hand, but didn’t break eye contact. “I yield.”

At this, Degore reached out a callused hand and pulled him off the ground. “Good fight,” they said to one another, before Leon came to critique them on their form.

Mordred wasn’t listening though, just kept his gaze firmly planted at the edge of the training pitch. At the sight of Merlin talking beside Her Highness and Arthur, the three of them walking up to the knights. They were too far away for Mordred to catch what Merlin was saying; but it was at least cheeky enough to warrant Arthur cuffing him around the head, and funny enough for Her Highness to start bowling over in a fit of hysterics.

In the midst of dodging another swing to his face, Merlin’s gaze caught Mordred’s, and with a flush Mordred turned away.

For some reason, Merlin wasn’t fond of him, and it wouldn’t do to go about staring him down. It would only give the servant even more reason for his dislike. It felt like walking on eggshells around him sometimes, unsure of what might set him off, unsure of why Merlin so readily gave his friendship to everyone _but_ Mordred.

But before Mordred could pretend to focus on Leon’s lecture, he noticed the impossible.

Merlin smiling.

Well, _that_ wasn’t impossible. Merlin was a ray of sunshine in human form, always skipping down the halls (or as he insisted, ‘walking enthusiastically’), always striking conversations with people, always befriending everyone in the castle. Even Sir Ector, who was so small and quiet that Mordred didn’t know he existed until just a week ago, was on good terms with Merlin.

So no, Merlin smiling wasn’t impossible.

But Merlin smiling at _Mordred_? That was like expecting rain to be dry.

Forgive him for his surprise, but he was stunned. But not too stunned to give an awkward smile in return, complete with a stiff wave and a confused expression. He just wanted to make a good impression on _Emrys himself_ , was that so hard?

Of course, Mordred’s life had never been easy, so it made sense that it wouldn’t start now.

“Alright, pair up,” Leon said, clapping his hands together with finality. “Ector, I want you with Bors. Degore, this time you’re up against Daniel. Percival, with Lucan. Elyan, you’re with Caradoc. Lionel’s with Brastius, Gaheris is with me, and Gwaine’s with Mordred. We rotate in ten minutes. Hand-to-hand this time, no weapons. While it’s important for a knight to use sword and steel, there may come a time when you have nothing but your hands. It’ll be important to know how to defend yourself without a weapon. Everyone clear on what to do?” As he listed off the pairs, the knights began shuffling their way up next to their partners, giving other groups a wide berth to make room for sparring.

“Yessir,” they all chorused out.

“Then let’s begin.” And thus they began.

The universe had to hate him or something. The one day Merlin was finally willing to pay attention to him he’s up against _Gwaine_ . Actual _Gwaine_. Percival was the strong one, sure, but Gwaine and Elyan were the best fighters in terms of hand-to-hand. When weapons were down, you could count on Gwaine to at least give you a black eye. He fought hard and he fought dirty. While Mordred could give him a run for his money in a sword fight, or hell, a mace fight, this? Hand-to-hand combat? He was as good as disgraced.

Gwaine feinted left, and Mordred swung low. Snagged his leg, skidded downward, dragged him to the grass. Gwaine caught on just in time to knee him in the shoulder and back away. Mordred rolled off, groaning. Before he could think up a new strategy, Gwaine was pouncing on him. On the ground. On his back. Kick to the gut. Scratch to the ear. Punch. Throw. Elbow in the ribs. Wrist to the nose.

Mordred flung Gwaine off with both arms and rolled away, before regaining his footing at a good distance. Gwaine did the same.

While wiping blood from his nose, panting, Mordred noticed something in the corner of his eye.

Was that - was Merlin _cheering_? For him or for Gwaine? Probably Gwaine but -

Crunch!

Mordred’s few seconds of introspection were all it took for Gwaine to deal a solid blow to his cheek, knocking him off his balance and onto the ground once more.

“Do you yield?” asked Gwaine, hand outstretched.

Mordred rolled his eyes. “That was hardly fair, you’re too good at this. You should’ve been paired with Elyan or something.”

Gwaine tossed his hair over his shoulder. “Ah, but you see, lad, all is fair in fisticuffs.”

Grumbling, Mordred accepted the hand and pulled himself upward - just enough leverage to swing Gwaine down.

Before Gwaine could scramble back to his feet in defense, Mordred placed his boot on his opponent’s chest. “Do _you_ yield, Sir Gwaine?”

Gwaine could only laugh. “Alright, I yield.”

While Mordred helped Gwaine back onto his feet, although not reaching out his hand lest Gwaine use his own trick against him, Merlin came running towards them.

“I can’t believe you bested Gwaine of all people,” he said, eyes alight with excitement. And, perhaps, a hint of nervousness, but that didn’t seem right. He was the most powerful sorcerer, nay, _living being_ , to ever walk the earth. What cause would he have for nervousness?

Gwaine gave Merlin a playful shove, which Merlin reciprocated. “Ah, are you doubting Sir Mordred’s skills?” The look on Gwaine’s face said he was also pleasantly stunned at Merlin’s sudden change of heart. Which made sense. Just about everyone was confused as to why he was so cold towards Mordred.

“No, I’m doubting his skills in a fist-fight,” said Merlin. Okay, there was definitely a lace of edginess in his tone. Oh, he _was_ nervous. But why would he be nervous? If anyone ever crossed him, he could just blink and they’d be a pile of ash. Figures of legend just didn’t get nervous. “That is, he’s got really good mace-work, and he could beat you bloody with an axe if you let him, but…fists are more your domain, Gwaine. Must be all the bar fights.”

Gwaine shoved him again. “Must be. Speaking of, you gonna finally join me and the Table down at the Rising Sun tonight?”

“No, sorry.” Merlin shook his head. “I’ve got other things.”

The knight shook his head and wagged his finger scoldingly. “All work and no play makes you awfully dull, Merlin.”

Merlin wagged his finger right back, elfen features twisted into something sly. “All play and no work makes you awfully dim, Sir Gwaine.” Gwaine snickered and ruffled the servant’s hair.

“Rotate!” Leon shouted, and went on dictating the new pairs. Mordred was up against Gaheris this time, which wasn’t too bad. Gaheris had a lot of bulk, but most of it was more aesthetic than functional. He was a lot newer than Mordred too, meaning he was less finessed.

...But could probably still beat him in a fist-fight. What he lacked in grace, he made up for in beating things bloody.

Mordred was doomed.

Merlin, strangely, could only offer his sympathy. He reached to place a tentative hand on the young knight’s shoulder, and said, “Some days I wonder why you lot enjoy being knights.”

C’mon, Mordred, good impression. Say something worthy of Emrys. “I am proud to protect my kingdom.”

Merlin swallowed hard, and a pained expression dawned on his face. Oh god, was there something wrong in what he said? What did he -

“That’s good,” said Merlin between panicked breaths. It seemed as though he took a short moment to bunch up his - fear? - and tuck it deep in his ribs. Mordred wouldn’t have even see it if his father had never taught him how to notice microexpressions. “Hey, listen. Mordred. I get that we didn’t…” He rubbed his neck. The nervousness was back. “...get off on the right foot before. A-and I take full responsibility for that!”

Oh god. Was this going where he thought it was going?

“I was just wondering if you wanted to...I don’t know…”

“Start over?”

“Y-yeah.”

Oh god oh god literal Emrys wanted to be his friend. Or try, anyway. The sorcerer every magic user in their right mind grew up trying to emulate, the face behind all the stories he was told before bed. When playing with the other druid kids, everyone wanted to be Emrys in their games (but Mordred always wound up playing the dragon). Whenever someone was afraid of the dark, or scared of being dragged off to Camelot, their mothers would come to their sides and soothe them with lullabies of Emrys and his king. Of the golden age they would bring.

And Emrys. _That_ Emrys. Wanted to get on with him. Wanted to be _friends_.

Oh hell, Kara would never believe this.

Swallowing all his anxious energy, Mordred held out a quivery hand. “Mordred Aiche, son of Olich Aiche. Former druid of the Trossad clan.”

Merlin, whose hand was equally unsteady, grabbed his and gave it a curt shake. “Merlin Leodegrance, bastard son of Hunith. Former carpenter of Ealdor in Essetir. You know the rest.”

“Carpenter?”

“Yeah. I’m absolutely terrible at hunting, and farming, and fishing, and - you get the idea. So they had me work with the house-builders.”

A third voice arose as Arthur Pendragon appeared behind Merlin. “And I bet you were terrible at that as well.”

Merlin clucked his tongue. “Ah, but you see, sire, it wasn’t until I arrived at Camelot that I found my true calling: putting up with prats.”

While Merlin and Mordred laughed at their king’s expense, Arthur was busy being struck by a realization. “Wait a minute. You said Merlin _Leodegrance_. Isn’t that Guinevere’s maiden name?”

Merlin shrugged. “Yes?”

“Why on earth do you share Elyan and Guinevere’s family name?”

“Long story.” Not dignifying Arthur’s confusion with a response, he turned back to Mordred. “Now, listen, I was wondering if maybe we could - I don’t know, and certainly not if you’re busy - but if you’re _not_ busy, would you want to go herb-picking with me this afternoon?”

Mordred’s heart stopped. Full on. Stopped dead. No more beating. Dead.

Emrys was inviting him to hang out. Like bros (whatever ‘bros’ were; it was just some invented term Leon had invented that one time they managed to get him drunk).

Oh god.

A voice in his head, that sounded suspiciously like Kara, whispered _Don’t just flounder there like a fish! This is the chance of a lifetime!_

“Sounds good,” Mordred forced out.

* * *

 It was twilight. The sky was lit up with orange and pink and blue, a blend of pastels shading the trees and casting shadows upon the ground. The air was brisk, but not yet cold, and all was silent save the buzzing of cicadas.

Merlin was crouched, wicker basket dangling from the crook of his arm, as he swept up a handful of calendula.

“- and then,” said Mordred, picking comfrey on the other side of the clearing. “Halley just popped out of the barrel, dripped head to foot in ale, and shouted, ‘Found you!’.” They both laughed at his story.

They had both spent the better half of an afternoon exchanging funny childhood anecdotes, although most of them were Mordred’s. After all, he he had more to share.

Before officially leaving the druids when he was 15, Mordred had a long time to make lots of childhood memories. Sure, there were periods he didn’t choose to talk about - age ten, for instance - but that was a period when his camp was ravaged by raids, so Merlin couldn’t entirely blame him. And so far, Merlin had learned quite a bit about his upbringing. He, like Merlin, didn’t have many friends growing up. Mostly just a girl named Kara, her sisters Halley and Lorain, and an older man named Ensen. A majority of druids feared and even shunned him for reasons beyond his understanding (Merlin could take a guess), but at least he had a decent group to interact with. Apparently they got up to a lot of mischief, too, which Merlin couldn’t have guessed by how serious Mordred had seemed as a child.

Merlin’s upbringing, while pleasant, was nothing noteworthy. He grew up on a farm, was roped into carpentry at a young age because of his strange talent for nailing things, stuck mostly to Will’s side, lived in fear of discovery, got bullied for being a bastard, had a close call with a pyre, and moved to Camelot nearly a decade ago. Being fatherless in a remote village where time was no object, Merlin didn’t know his age or birthday, but if he had to guess he’d say 27 or so.

Again. Nothing noteworthy.

Mordred held up a green, leafy plant. “Mint, right?”

“Smell it.”

He did so. “No, not mint.” A thoughtful pause. “I think it’s sage. Can you have a look?”

Merlin walked over, and Mordred held the sprig of herb up to his face. About a trillion different herbs flitted through his mind, Gaius’s instructional voice droning off in the back of his head. “Goldenseal, actually. You can leave it, he’s not out of that stuff yet.”

Mordred frowned a bit, but set the goldenseal back on the ground.

“On that note, it looks like it’s getting late,” said Merlin. He patted the side of his basket with content. “Arthur will have my head on a pike if I don’t get back by nightfall. Honestly, him and his baths. He’s worse than a woman.” Mordred chuckled. “If I don’t get executed for sorcery first, then I’ll surely die by overworking myself.”

Despite the grim mortality behind the joke, they both still laughed. Anyone else would be appalled, but when you spend your whole life waiting for the other shoe to drop, comedy becomes a coping mechanism.

They rose to their feet and headed back towards the city. But when the laughter died down between them, the air turned serious. Which Merlin had expected from Gaius, sure, Gaius never appreciated his jokes, but not Mordred. Mordred seemed to have a healthy respect for gallows humour, even indulging in a few dark quips himself. So what had gotten him serious all the sudden? Why did his eyes turn steely and sharp, like in the -

Merlin’s breath caught in his throat. No. Don’t think like that. Mordred wasn’t evil yet. He was good. He was nice. They spent this whole afternoon picking herbs and laughing about nothing. They were _bonding_ , damnit. Forget the vision. Please, for the love of god, forget the vision.

“Do you think it’ll ever change?” asked Mordred. His face was turned up to the sky, contemplative and tense. “I mean, the laws. Do you think we’ll ever be free?”

“It’s Arthur’s destiny as -”

“Yes, I know. Once and Future King. But it doesn’t feel like it. He hasn’t executed anyone, sure. So far he’s only been banishing sorcerers. And don’t get me wrong, that’s all well and good. It’s just…”

“You want to be honest about yourself,” Merlin finished, unable to lift his gaze from his boots. Just put one foot in front of the other and _don’t_ look at Mordred. “You want to be accepted for who you are. And no matter how many times you remind yourself to be patient, and that things take time, it still hurts whenever you hear someone talk about the evils of magic. You still have to sleep with one eye open, sleep with dreams of your own friends burning you alive. And no amount of prophecy can make your nightmares feel less real.”

Mordred swallowed hard. “Y-yeah. Something like that.”

Was this what caused his descent into evil? Out of the goodness of his heart, out of doubt, caused by Merlin’s inability to hasten destiny along? Would doubt turn to desperation? Would desperation turn to hate? Would hate turn to…

Merlin shook his head. “I think it will. Change, that is. One day. I know the last thing you want to hear is, ‘be patient’, so I won’t say it. But I’ve spent the last decade fighting sorcerers for him, hiding their sins and crimes and dealing with them in secret so he doesn’t get more fuel for his prejudice. Sometimes I even try to - in disguise - show him the good magic can do.” _Fat lot of good that did_ , Merlin was tempted to say, but that would only discourage Mordred. “I won’t ask you to take this lying down, but all the same you can’t forget that these things _do_ take time. You can’t undo thirty years of discrimination in one day, but it can still be done.”

Mordred’s face betrayed no emotion or comprehension, leaving Merlin only able to fidget at his side.

At last he asked, “How do you know Arthur’s the Once and Future King?”

“Easy. A dragon told me.”

“A dragon?”

“Long story.”

Mordred chuckled at this, and Merlin saw his chance. Here it was - an opening in the conversation. An opportunity to nonchalantly sneak in something about Mordred’s destiny. But would it be fair to dump such a huge revelation on him? To tell him his future? To burden him with the knowledge of his own possible villainy?

Well, perhaps he could at least give Mordred the option. If nothing else.

“Listen, Mordred,” Merlin started. And dammit, why did his voice have to sound so small and meak? “There’s something you might like to know.”

Mordred turned to face him, almost halting in his footsteps, but Merlin couldn’t meet his gaze.

“I want to give you the chance to say yes or no,” he continued. “It’s about your destiny.”

His eyes widened. “I have a - a destiny?”

“I think everyone does.” A sigh. “But yes. And I’ve known your destiny for a long time now. I’ll warn you, though. Destiny isn’t something to take lightly. I’ve had a few run-ins with knowing the future, and it only leads to misery, self-fulfillment, and a ton of frustration.”

Mordred shifted his basket from one arm to the other, and rolled his neck. “Is it bad?”

“I’d rather not say either way. If you want to know, then I’ll tell you, but be aware that sometimes ignorance is bliss. I just thought I’d at least give you the choice.”

A long stretch of silence passed between them. The cicadas continued to buzz, the dirt and leaves continued to crunch beneath their boots, Mordred’s chain mail clanked softly with each step, and Merlin did his very best to get lost in the sounds of nature.

It wasn’t hard, of course. Merlin always found it easy to slip into the roots and cracks and bark on the trees, to nestle himself in the folds of the universe until he blended into a canvas of wind and stars. Perhaps because even when he wasn’t thinking about it, he could feel the dirt under his feet and the breeze in his hair like an extension of himself, just as easily as one might feel their toes. Perhaps it was easy to get lost in the feeling of everything, because most days he felt as though he _was_ everything. And yet somehow, nothing at all.

It never made sense to him, then, why more people didn’t love nature as much as he. Or why Arthur loved hunting so much. Didn’t he feel the sharp twinge as the animal’s soul left its body? Didn’t he become compelled with the urge to weep as earthen creatures fell around him? Didn’t he feel nauseous and perturbed at the sight and sensation of a dead, decaying creature, withering as though it were a necrosis of his own skin?

Needless to say, Merlin stopped eating meat long ago.

People just didn’t make any sense sometimes. He had considered the idea that perhaps his oneness with the world was unique - which was preposterous, of course. It didn’t seem possible to go one’s whole life without feeling the souls of the trees and the bugs and the water around you. It didn’t seem possible to live a life so _empty_.

“Yes,” said Mordred abruptly, snapping him out of his reverie.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to know,” he said. “My destiny.”

“You’re sure about this.”

“Absolutely.”

Merlin sighed. Alright. Now or never. No backing out now. Who knew? Maybe it would be nice to have another confidant aside from Gaius. Maybe having another active (if atrophied) magic-user would be good for him. Boost morale, and all that.

It would be nice to have a friend.

This was the sentiment, along with a desire to prevent a repeat of Morgana, that pushed Merlin out of silence.

“Back during the Ismere incident,” Merlin said. His throat became dry the moment he opened his mouth, and no amount of nervous swallowing could fix that. “I encountered a druid seer named Lochru.” He ignored Mordred’s silent gasp. “He showed me a vision of Arthur’s Bane.”

If Merlin had dared pass his sight beyond his softly padding feet, he would have seen about fifty different emotions flicker in Mordred’s eyes. Ranging from surprise, to recognition, to fear, to epiphany.

“My dream,” he said softly, mostly to himself.

“Yeah.”

“See, when I was younger, I  - wait. You know about my dream?”

Merlin nodded, his muscles suddenly growing weary and stiff with sheer emotional exhaustion. “Last night you were drunk, and I escorted you back to your room. You mentioned it.”

Mordred opened his mouth, then closed it, and opened and closed it again, and did this a few times more. Trying to find the words, but failing at each attempt.

Don’t think about the vision, don’t think about the vision, don’t think about the -

Blood sword sky face falling falling falling oh god Arthur wake up _please_

Dammit.

“It was real, wasn’t it?” Mordred’s eyes were glossy with tears. Merlin could only nod in defeat. “So I - then I -”

“Supposedly, you kill Arthur.”

“Oh god.” Mordred leaned into a nearby tree and slid down to his knees. “I’m going to kill the king of Camelot.”

Merlin, still pointedly not looking at Mordred’s face, sat down beside him and rested a hand on his arm. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

A mirthless, breathy chuckle. “That’s why you were always so wary of me. Because I’m going to kill the Once and Future King.”

“But we can fix this, Mordred. We can at least try.”

He stared down at his hands, deaf to the world. “I’m a murderer.”

Merlin swatted his arm, shouting, “Will you shut up about the murder, you haven’t even done anything yet!”

“I might as well have!” Mordred shouted back, and Merlin flinched back on instinct. Horrified by his own outburst, Mordred shrank away from the warlock’s touch and tucked his knees up to his chest. “The others were right. I _am_ a monster.”

Merlin sighed again, and defied his fearful instincts by inching closer to the knight. “Am I a monster?”

“What?”

“Am I a monster?”

“Wha - no, you’re Emrys, you don’t have an evil bone in your body.”

“I released the dragon, didn’t I?” Merlin injected brevity into his words with a noncommittal shrug.

Mordred nearly choked on his own breath. Wheezing, he asked, “Y-you did what now?”

“Yeah. Back a long time ago, I released the Great Dragon, inadvertently killing hundreds of people. Including my own father.” He said that last bit too quietly for Mordred to hear.

With an awkward half-grin, half-grimace, Mordred said, “Okay, yeah, that _is_ pretty bad. But I’m sure you had a good reason.”

Merlin shifted his weight so he could face Mordred better. He couldn’t shy away from eye contact, he couldn’t get bested by his own fear. Not when Mordred needed him. “I was naive, the dragon wanted freedom, and I was ripe for the manipulating,” said Merlin, not trying to hide his contempt. Sure, he and Kilgharrah were on good terms _now_ , but he was still sore about it.

“See? That’s not so bad, then. Nothing like intentionally and purposely running your sword through -” He clamped a hand over his mouth, looking every inch ready to hurl.

“Let’s not compare apples to oranges here, Mordred. We’re talking about something I definitely did do, despite my good intentions, that had serious real-world consequences. And putting that next to a crime that you _might_ commit.”

“But druid seers have always been right,” said Mordred. “You can’t fight destiny.”

Merlin took a deep breath. “I have to believe that we can.”

Mordred looked up at him, eyes slowly rimming with red. And for once, they managed eye contact without catapulting Merlin back into the vision.

“I have to believe,” Merlin reiterated. “That we _can_ change our fate, that nothing is set in stone. Because to sit and allow it is to accept that my best friend will die at the hands of my other friend.”

“I’m your friend?” Mordred asked, too quiet for anyone to hear.

“You’re a skilled knight and you have a noble heart,” he said. “You’re one of Arthur’s most trusted companions. And if I may be so bold, I happen to be a pretty gosh darn powerful sorcerer. If _anyone_ can rewrite the future, it’s us.”

Mordred smiled, a bit heartened by his words. “T-thanks, Merlin. For telling me the truth. And for - for having faith in me.”

Merlin smiled back, and rose to his feet, stretching. “You’d do the same for me. Now! Let’s get back before Arthur turns me inside out and hangs me from my kidneys.”

With a laugh, Mordred grabbed his herb basket and stood up beside him. “Can’t say I’ve seen an execution quite like that.”

“And you probably never will,” Merlin quipped, and they resumed their journey towards the city. “Arthur doesn’t have the creativity to think of it.”

On the long walk back home, their conversation slowly returned to its former exuberance, as they invented increasingly convoluted execution techniques. Merlin’s idea - to constantly follow someone around and thwap them in the neck with a spoon until they die - won out.

* * *

 

Lord James Austin of the Withered Steppes wasn’t remarkably powerful. He didn’t have a wealth of land, nor did he have an army of servants or a massive trove of gold. What he did have, however, was his manservant Dinadan.

Dinadan Gorrs was far more than your average manservant. After all, no other manservant had an innate magical talent.

When Austin had found him as little more than a starved lad, abandoned by parents who could not bear the sight of their son’s golden eyes, he specialized in scrying. If he closed his eyes long enough, he could see anything in the world. But Austin had no use for scrying or astral projections, and quickly rerouted Dinadan towards higher pursuits. Dark magic. He had conspired with figures such as Nimueh and Morgause and even Madam Mim herself, seeking to sculpt Dinadan into the powerful force of nature he could be.

For the longest time, they had all suspected he would become Emrys, but a quick visit with some druids dashed those dreams.

Though Dinadan’s natural inclination towards Sight had faded over the years, he had since replaced the skill with the far more useful ability of curses. And now whenever Austin looked upon this young man who obeyed his whims, lapping at Austin’s heels wherever he went, he could not help but display a proud smirk.

“Is it ready?” asked Austin.

Dinadan, all ginger hair and lithe hands, was busy preparing his master’s bed for sleep. “Yes, sire.”

With a smile and a nod, Austin said, “Good. When should we expect to see the effects?”

“By tomorrow if things go as planned, sire. But - if I may speak?”

“You may.”

A sharp sigh. Eyes the shape and colour of almonds, downturned in shame. “I have never...performed a spell quite like this. Sire, it may not work.”

Austin laughed and clapped him on the back. “That’s what worries you? Dinadan, you are the most skilled sorcerer I’ve the pleasure of knowing. If you can’t pull this off, no one can.”

“But sire -”

“Relax,” he said. He sat down on the guest bed, just barely comfortable enough for a noble as prestigious as himself, and Dinadan set to work pulling off his boots. “If all goes to plan tomorrow, we celebrate. If the spell failed, then there’s no harm done.”

Dinadan didn’t seem convinced, but didn’t voice his concerns further. He just helped his master settle into bed for the night, turned out the candles, and tucked away to the antechamber. Dinadan never much enjoyed what Austin made him do. Dark magic felt viscous and gross, like a stale molasses churning between his ribs. He longed for the days where he could astral project - depart from his binding flesh and let his soul fly up to the stars, visit other worlds, race with comets. But Austin had branded him with a special rune, tethering him forever within a prison of skin. All the same, he knew it was wrong of him to feel this way. Austin was good to him. He took care of him, put a roof over his head, fed him, gave him a job and a home when no one else would. If he had to suffer just a bit, just to repay in some small manner how much he owed, then he would.

Even so, this latest spell didn’t sit right with him. Less so than normal. The royal couple - Arthur and Guinevere were their names - were a kind sort. King Arthur was a steely, formidable man who tried too hard to hide the doting lover beneath. Dinadan could see the softened looks he sent both wife and servant, and Arthur’s firm voice did not fool anyone.

Queen Guinevere was a nice lady. She reminded him of his mother. At least, before she dragged him out of the house by his shirt collar and tossed him into the mud, spitting at him before shutting the door in his face. The queen had clasped his hands in both of hers, earnestly welcoming him and telling him to “Please, call me Gwen”.

Their hospitality towards a servant of all people was endearing. It made him feel loved. More loved, perhaps, than with Austin. A stupid notion of course, as Austin promised that he was the only one who would ever love an unnatural freak like Dinadan. But it was in those moments when he melted away into memories, away from Austin, that he let himself fantasize about Arthur and Gwen. And maybe even that unnamed servant of theirs with the insolent eyes. Dream of a world where they had found him and taken him in, where Gwen’s dulcet tones sang him to sleep, and kissed his scraped knees and told him that she didn’t hate him for what he couldn’t control. A world where Arthur took him hunting and taught him how to read, and comforted him when he cried.

When he looked at the royal couple, when he felt their warmth towards everyone, he did not see a king and queen.

He saw a happy family.

Which was why it hurt all the more to think of what Austin had made him do to them.

But it was for the best, of course. He’d only known Arthur and Gwen for little more than two days, and they would likely execute him the moment they knew what he was.

_“You know why your parents tossed you? Because you’re unnatural. It’s the gold in your eyes. But that’s okay. I like monsters, because I’m a monster too. And I say we relish in our darkness. If you remember nothing else, remember this. I’m the only one who will ever love you. Not mother or father or anyone in this castle of mine. Just me.”_

“Master loves me,” Dinadan whispered to himself before rolling over onto his other side. “No one else.”

* * *

 

The conversation with Mordred had left him refreshed and alive. Happier, springier, lighter than he had in months. Yes, he could defeat destiny. He was Emrys, and Emrys could do anything. Would do anything, for his Once and Future King.

“Morning, Mary,” he greeted with a dip of the head.

She scowled at him, but there was no heat in her eyes. They once hated each other. But sometime after his fifth year in Camelot her maternal instincts kicked in, and Merlin had matured enough not to antagonize her so much. She still scowled and frowned and groaned and shouted, but that was just Mary’s way. She used to throw pots at him, so this was definitely an improvement.

“Comin’ ta get tha king’s food, are ya?” Her lips smacked as she spoke, hands on her hips.

“And the queen’s,” Merlin added. He couldn’t resist smiling impishly at her. She scruffed his hair with a huff, before setting two plates of careful porcelain onto the tray in his hands. On one plate was a meaty fare of sausages and eggs. On the other was a portion of melons and grapes, sided with some biscuits. Just as his friends liked it.

“Thanks, Mary.”

She rolled her eyes and swatted at him. “Now git on, shoo wit ya! Outta my kitchen, ‘fore I smack ya wit my spoon!”

Merlin ducked his head, chuckling and sticking his tongue out at her as he passed through the doorway.

He smiled and shook his head in humour as he carried on down the hall. Gwaine would call it skipping, but it was very much _not_ skipping. Not at all.

(Despite his denial, that was in fact what it was)

Merlin approached the king’s door and its two guards. This morning on guard duty were Edgar and Wallace. He bade them both their hellos, inquired after Edgar’s newborn son, and stepped into the chamber without a knock.

Though Gwen now shared a room with Arthur, Merlin hadn’t needed to change most of his routine. She usually woke up long before her husband, silently got ready for the day with her maidservant Lianne, and went for a walk down in the gardens till it came the time for Merlin to arrive with breakfast. Such had been their routine for years now.

So to see Gwen still in bed this late was quite a bit of a shock, considering he could count on one hand how many times this had happened - four. Four times in three years. And all of those nights had been within the first month of their marriage. Since then, Gwen’s servant instincts usually kicked in and roused her at dawn.

Perhaps they’d had an exhausting night? Merlin reddened at the thought. Perhaps he really ought to get into the habit of knocking after all, if they were going to be like that.

Sure, he’d seen both of them indecent - Arthur, on a daily basis since Merlin dealt his baths. And Gwen, that one time eight years ago when she had taken ill and Merlin was the one to care for her since Gaius was in another town. She had been delirious and near-comatose for the better part of a week, frequently vomiting all over herself, so Merlin had to change her clothes and clean her up multiple times a day. Both of them were deeply, deeply embarrassed by that whole situation. They vowed to never speak of it again.

So yes, he knew what they looked like, both from experience as their friend and as a physician’s apprentice. But still. Private moments stayed private, and perhaps for once Arthur was right about the knocking thing.

Of course, Gwen’s presence meant he’d have to be softer in waking them. She was worth silent, careful preparation and being gently shaken awake. Arthur wasn’t, but he’d have to give Arthur reprieve just this once. For Gwen’s sake.

Merlin gingerly pulled the curtains open, and tried his luck with Gwen first. She was a light sleeper, so it came as expected for her eyes to flutter open at the slightest touch.

“Gwen,” he hummed. “It’s time to wake up, milady.”

She blinked, bleary-eyed and face drawn with the vestiges of a restless sleep. “Hmm?”

Then yet another unexpected thing happened. She flinched.

Her eyes were wide with panic and fear as she inched backwards onto the bed, but ran into Arthur’s body before she could get too far.

“Gwen?” Merlin asked, trying to keep his voice and face void of concern. But it was no use, he could hear the wavering twitch in his tone. _Such a girl, Merlin_. “Gwen, are you alright?”

“W-who are you?” she almost shouted, body shivering in fright. “Where a-am I? What is this place?”

Oh god no.

This wasn’t Merlin’s first go-around with memory curses. Just months after first arriving in Camelot, Morgana was overtaken by a complete memory wipe. The whole castle was beside itself in grief for two weeks, before Merlin found the spell to lift it. That had been one of Merlin’s first forays into curse-lifting.

In his third year, Gaius had been hit with an amnesia spell that made him think he was fifteen again, and Merlin spent the better half of two days hiding this fact from Uther and trying to keep a rebellious teenage Gaius from pranking people with his magic. It was a lot like the goblin, only that time no one got accused of sorcery.

Then a few months before the dorocha incident, Lancelot had touched a strange amulet that trapped all his happy memories within it. Comforting the sobbing, wrecked form of someone usually so strong was...strange, to say the least.

And here it was. Yet another amnesia curse. And just when he was starting to get used to the peace, too. But this was Camelot, and Merlin’s life was just one thankless venture of frustration and pain, so he supposed it was only inevitable. Should have anticipated it, even.

“Do you know your name?”

She paused, then shook her head in panic.

“Your name is Gwen,” he said, but no amount of clearing his throat could alleviate knotting of his gut. “Guinevere Pendragon, formerly Guinevere Leodegrance but you’re married. You’re 31 years old, daughter of Tom and Enide Leodegrance, sister of Sir Elyan Leodegrance. Do you remember?”

Arthur, the utter troll, remained asleep through all of this. A sinking feeling told Merlin his master was likely just as amnesiac as his wife. Because if Arthur was good at one thing, it was making things difficult.

She clutched her head, now sitting upright and knees drawn to her chest, white satin nightgown bunched about her. “I...my name is Gwen?”

“Guinevere,” he corrected. “But your friends call you Gwen.”

Confusion struck her features. “Guinevere. But you call me Gwen.”

“Because we’re friends. My name is Merlin Leodegrance.”

The confusion sunk deeper. “Leodegrance...are we related?”

He laughed at the memory of how he obtained his last name, and crouched down so he could be at her eye-level. Patting her hand in sympathy, he said, “Not by blood. Elyan’s your biological brother. I’m...adopted, of sorts? It’s a weird situation. But long story short, your father let me borrow his last name.”

She cocked her head to the side like a puppy might, before her gaze caught onto the other man sharing her bed. “W-who is that?”

“That’s your husband,” said Merlin. “His name is Arthur Pendragon.”

Face blank, she wistfully murmured, “Pendragon…” but said no more. He tried to coax her out of bed and to the table for breakfast, so they could try and figure something out. But she was trembling with shock, so he let her be for the moment. Amnesiacs were often like frightened woodland creatures. Innocent and afraid. You had to let them come to you at their own pace, let them learn to trust you instead of forcing these things.

Well. While he waited for Gwen to gather her presently limited bearings, it was time to awaken the prat.

If Gwaine were here, Merlin would have wagered him at least twenty gold that Arthur would take a more aggressive route with his amnesia.

Good god, this would be worse than the simpleton incident, wouldn’t it?

Alright, best not antagonize the amnesiac. Try for a gentle approach.

“Arthur,” he said. “Wake up.” He shook harder. “ _Arthur_.”

“Is he alright?” Gwen asked distantly.

A huff. “Yes, he’s just a heavy sleeper. You might want to step off the bed, maybe sit down for some food at the table. Your plate’s the one with the fruit, milady.”

“Why?”

“Because if I know Arthur, he’s going to wake up very confused and very angry. I don’t know how aggressive he’ll be, but right now your safety is a priority.”

She gave him a suspicious look, but obliged him nonetheless. “And you say I married him?”

Mostly to himself, Merlin grumbled, “For reasons that perplex us all.” He slapped Arthur’s arm, a touch impatient. “Oi! Prat! I don’t have time for this. Memories or no, you need to wake up.”

Just as Merlin reared back his hand to start tugging the covers away, a hand darted out and gripped his wrist. A stern, hostile face glared intently at him.

“M-morning, sire,” Merlin greeted.

“Who the hell are you?” Arthur spat out, grip scathingly tight. Ah well. Not the most painful thing he’d been through.

“I’m your servant. You weren’t waking up.”

His brows drew tight. “Servant? I have a servant?”

Merlin yanked his hand out of Arthur’s grasp and held it to his chest as though coveting a rare gem. “One that deserves a handsome raise for all the crap you put me through.” Arthur’s frown deepened. “One that is also telling you to get out of bed and go eat your breakfast.”

“And why should I trust you?” He sat up straighter, muscles taut like a bowstring and just as likely to strike.

Merlin groaned. “Because unless you want to make a scene of this, you don’t have many other choices. My name is Merlin, your name is Arthur Pendragon, you’re the king of Camelot, this is your bedroom, that -” he pointed to Gwen, who was now eating at the table. “- is your lovely wife Guinevere, and _I_ need to go figure out how to restore your memories. Before I have an aneurysm.” He leapt off the bed and hastened into a bow before hurrying to the door. “Just - stay in here for now, try to eat your breakfast, and...try to stay calm, alright? This will all make sense in a little bit, I promise.”

Arthur scoffed and opened his mouth for an indignant, angry retort, but it was cut off as Merlin shut the door behind him.

“That bad, huh?” Wallace the chamber guard joked.

“Worse.” Merlin hung his head low. “You remember about, oh maybe nine years ago? When the Lady Morgana had that amnesia episode?”

Both guards nodded in unison.

“It’s happened again, but with both the king and queen now.”

Gasps of shock. “So I assume you’d like us to prevent them from leaving and wandering the halls cluelessly then?” Wallace guessed. He was the only one of the two who ever spoke.

Merlin nodded. Arthur could be heard angrily pounding on the door and shouting to be released. Edgar, the other guard, pressed his muscular body against the door to prevent its opening. “I need to go confer with Gaius on the matter,” the warlock said.

“Best of luck to you, then,” said Wallace. “We’ll hold down the fort as best we can. You just bring our king back, alright?”

Yes, that was what he would do. That was what he always did.

Merlin took a moment to collect his breath, then took off streaming down the corridor. Countless servant friends called out to him in alarm and confusion, even Gwaine at one point, but Merlin was a man on a mission and would not be diverted.

That is, until he ran face-first into the chest of a rather tall man.

He had grey hair slicked back in a way reminiscent of Agravaine, neutral blue eyes, and pruney, scarred hands that remained mostly tucked into the folds of his flowing blue robes. “Ah, sorry, Lord Austin,” said Merlin, backing away and biting his cheek. Visiting noble? Strange condition afflicting royalty? Wasn’t this just the most reused diabolical plot ever. Conspiring lords needed to get more creative.

Lord Austin’s face distorted into a smile - a fake one, if you knew what to look for. “You, boy. You’re the king’s manservant, aren’t you?”

Merlin nodded.

“How is he doing today? Last I spoke he confessed of feeling ill, and I wanted to make sure he’s alright.”

Yeah, it was _definitely_ Austin’s fault alright. How or why was beyond him, but it wasn’t like Merlin ever tried to understand these people’s motives. They were crazy, everyone in this forsaken kingdom was crazy, and sometimes it felt like he was the only one even remotely sane (although Gaius and Arthur would disagree).

“He’s doing alright, milord,” Merlin said, and had enough experience hiding his emotions to know that Arthur’s true condition would not be betrayed.

For the briefest of moments, Austin frowned, but caught himself and perked right back up. “That’s good then. So I’m supposing today’s council meeting will go as scheduled?”

Yes, milord,” said Merlin. All this obedience made his tongue taste acrid. If he didn’t say something facetious and soon, he’d probably hurl.

Lord Austin flashed another one of his fake smiles and patted Merlin on the shoulder as he walked past. “Good lad,” he said in a voice so dripping with condescension it nearly drowned Merlin’s ears.

“Wait, milord,” Merlin blurted, and Austin halted in his gait.

“Yes?”

“If I may…” Merlin steeled himself for another bitter-tasting wave of propriety. “...be so bold as to ask a question to your grace?”

Austin, pleased at the apparent humility and servitude of the man before him, smirked his first genuine smile of the morning. “Go right ahead.”  
Merlin’s walls of false subservience crumbled with little more than a snide quirk of his lips. He leaned in, and all signs of the head-bowing servant from before faded. In his place was a powerful, confident sorcerer who knew damn well what he was doing. “Could you be so kind as to tell me how to reverse what you did to the king and his wife? Milord?”

Austin’s face contorted into a million different expressions, and Merlin had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. There was confusion, then indignance, then surprise, and now rage.

He snatched Merlin by his jacket sleeve and tugged him into the nearest alcove. Ah yes, they were doing this then, hmm? What was it with court traitors and pulling him into alcoves? They really weren’t as secretive as bad guys liked to think.

“Not a word of this to anyone!” Austin hissed, pushing Merlin against the wall, forearm pressed into the servant’s clavicle. “Or I shall have you executed on the spot.”

Merlin chuckled. Ah yes, the old tell-a-soul-and-I’ll-kill-you routine. What was next? The no-one-will-believe-you-anyway-because-you’re-just-a-servant routine? These things were getting far too predictable.

With Morgana and Agravaine he had cause for concern, because they knew well enough to threaten his loved ones instead. But this? Merlin cared for his own wellbeing about as much as Gwaine cared for being sober. Hell, he was _born_ with the threat of execution dangling overhead. This was nothing special.

“What’s so funny?!”

Merlin shrugged, not bothering to wriggle out of Austin’s almost-chokehold. “You can’t kill me.” It sounded arrogant even to Merlin, but he needed to assert his dominance and what better way to do that than to pull his best Pratdragon impression? “I’ve been serving the royal household for a decade, people listen to me.”

“You’re just a servant!”

He rolled his eyes. If he had a coin for every time someone said that, he’d be even richer than Arthur. And Arthur, being the king of Albion’s most powerful nation, was so rich it was disgusting.

“Maybe so,” he conceded. “But like I said. For better or worse, people _listen_ to me. I’m the king’s confidant.”

“Liar.”

“Believe what you like. Doesn’t matter to me either way. As I see it, though, you have two options.” He counted off on his fingers, hand held out awkwardly due to Austin’s angled closeness. “One, you do the right thing and tell me how to lift the curse. We’ll both go our separate ways, and I shall never tell a soul of what happened. I’ll let Arthur go chase shadows and false leads, and you go back to doing whatever stuffy nobles are wont to do.”

Austin pressed in harder, and for a moment it almost hurt. _Almost_. But after the serket sting, which was usually fatal under the best of circumstances, most other pains were little more than paltry aches.

“And the second option?” Austin’s breath smelled of mead. The fancy kind, not the cheap tavern-brand alcohol that Gwaine usually reeked of. Austin had probably gotten some from the royal cellar or something. Perhaps - oh, right, hadn’t Arthur given him a cask of wine as a welcome gift the other day?

“You don’t tell me how to save my friends, and I’ll start screaming.” At this, Merlin finally pushed Austin off him. Not hard to do, since the life of a noble seldom warranted muscle mass. Merlin’s grin was wide and devious as he continued. “And I’m known to be rather loud. So what will it be, _milord_?”

Lord Austin grunted, eyes glistening with an enraged sheen. “You insolent brat.”

Merlin snickered. Did people receive a script of some kind before attempting treachery? He could imagine it now, a leatherbound book titled _An Noble’s Guide to Plotting Against the King_ by Morgana Pendragon that, as soon as you developed the malicious intent for it, would magically appear on your lap. Chapter 27: How to Deal with Merlin Because that Bastard Gets in the Way of Everything and I Hate Him, and Why You Should Too. Now with ten extra pages of what to say to Merlin in the event that he inevitably catches your scheme and beats your arse.

Wringing his hands impatiently, he said, “Yes well this insolent brat is going to open his insolent mouth if you don’t tell me what I want to know.”

Austin opened his mouth, then closed it, unsure of what to say or how to react. He stood there gaping like a fish, and Merlin did _not_ have time for this frustrating individual to make up his mind.

Then Lord Austin turned his head out into the hallway and shouted. “Guards! Guards! Come quick!”

What was he playing at?

Oh. _That_ was what.

Two guards, whom Merlin identified as Wilhelm and Urich, approached. “What seems to be the problem, milord?” asked Wilhelm, the stockier of the two.

Red-faced and petulant, Austin pointed an angry finger at Merlin. “This _boy_ hit me!”

Dammit. The last time someone braved such an accusation was back in the time of Morgana. Perhaps he’d taken a page from the witch’s book after all. Although somehow Merlin couldn’t imagine her sitting at a desk and scribbling into a tome, not when she could be busy evil-doing.

Urich rose a thin eyebrow. “Merlin.”  
“Yes.”

“Merlin hit you.”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

Urich and Wilhelm exchanged glances, clearly hesitant, and Merlin was feeling all too proud at their reluctance. It was nice to have friends. He tried to ignore the cold knowledge that they wouldn’t be so warm if they knew his secret.

Also sensing their reluctance, Austin continued, “Doubts aside, I’m still a noble, you’re still guards, and that little maggot is still a servant. I outrank you all combined. So you shall do as I say, and I say to throw him into a dungeon!”

Damn. He was good.

Both the guards coughed out their uneasy ‘yessir’s and carefully grabbed Merlin by the shoulders. “This way,” said Urich. Merlin didn’t bother fighting. He got along well with all the guards in the castle, so he could easily talk his way out of this. Warn them, perhaps, of the severity of the situation.

After all, his two best friends were currently panicking in their room, void of memories. Even memories of _him_.

Being carted away gave a few moments of purchase to those stinging, agonized thoughts. That Gwen, whom he saw as a sister, and Arthur, whom he saw as a brother, didn’t remember him. Not trips to the Perilous Lands or fighting immortal armies or exchanging servant gossip or getting absolutely sloshed in the king’s chambers or -

Merlin cleared his throat and pushed the discomfort into a dark, dark corner of his mind. The corner where all his sad thoughts went. It wouldn’t do Gwen and Arthur any good just tottering around miserably.

“So what was that all about?” asked Wilhelm.

“The king’s enchanted again,” said Merlin lightly.

They both chortled, half in disbelief and half in exasperation. Merlin could more than sympathize. This happened far too often. “And it’s Lord Austin’s fault then,” Urich surmised. Merlin nodded.

“Looking for Gaius?”

Another nod. “If you could let me go…” Both pairs of hands departed from his frame, once they were far beyond Austin’s sight. “Thanks. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a clotpole to smack some sense into.”

He bid them adieu, and hurried off down the busy corridor once again. By his estimation, the council meeting was set an hour from now, which gave him probably...half an hour? Yes, he’d aim to get this mess sorted out within a half hour.

* * *

 

“Gaius!” Merlin burst through the door to the physician’s chambers, only to find it empty and dim save a silhouette standing by the table.

A silhouette with brown hair and familiar, piercing eyes.

Sword. Sky. Blood. Face. Gut.

He staggered, before reminding himself of their reconciliation, and of his vow to prevent Mordred’s cursed fate. It wouldn’t be good to fear the young knight, not with everything they planned to do.

“Ah, Mordred,” said Merlin, and he cursed himself for his continued fear.

“Merlin!” Mordred turned away from the table, parchment clasped in one hand while his other hand flopped lamely at his hip. “I was looking for Gaius, and I found this letter.” Mordred handed it over.

The warlock groaned as he read Gaius’s small, narrow script.

_Merlin,_

_Claire is having her baby today, and I will be in the lower town for a while to assist. I should expect to be back before dinner, so no need to worry about that. Stay out of trouble._

_Gaius_

“Did you need something?” asked Mordred.

Not from the likes of you, whispered a venomous voice that he smothered instantly. “Actually, yeah. I need a favour.” Merlin walked upstairs to the bookshelves and used magic to float a stack of twenty or so down to the table. They landed with a heavy, quaking thud that Mordred flinched at. “Help me read through all these.”

The knight sheepishly held up his arm. “But - but I sprained my wrist.”

Merlin dragged his hands down his face as he made his way back downstairs. He picked up the book at the top of the stack. _Monsters, Beasts, and Spirits: a Traveler’s Guide_. Might not be useful in a matter of curses, but in the last ten years he’d learned to cover his bases.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, Mordred. Arthur and Gwen are at risk.” His eyes flashed gold, and the book popped open, pages fluttering past on their own volition. When the wordless spell didn’t find what it was looking for, the book snapped shut and floated back into its place on the shelf.

Mordred startled into action and one-handedly picked up a book while Merlin fluttered away at another one. “What’s wrong with their Majesties?"

Merlin dove into a description of his morning and the royals’ symptoms, as Mordred leafed through the books as fast as his single hand would allow. Thus they carried on in this way, door enchanted so that no one could walk in on them while magic was still abuzz, silently skimming through everything they could for a clue.

“Aha!” exclaimed Mordred after about ten minutes into their search. He tossed the open book onto the table and pointed at one of the pages. Merlin’s book-search spells acted on their own accord even as their caster drew to Mordred’s side, but neither magic user seemed to care.

The page under Mordred’s hand had ivy patterns decorating the borders, with ornate red letters titling the passage.

“Déan Dearmad,” Mordred read aloud, and paraphrased the rest of the text. “I-it’s a ritual certain druid tribes used to perform as a punishment for criminals. When someone committed a crime, they would be cleansed of their memories and get a clean slate.”

“Giving them a second chance to start over and be a better person,” Merlin added. “Smart.”

“But why would Lord Austin want to do that?”

“If Arthur and Gwen are both unfit to lead, and since there’s no next of kin, authority goes to the First Knight.”

“Leon.”

“Yeah,” said Merlin with a nod. “But, naturally all the lords are going to fight for the throne, too.”

“And his lordship believes he has a shot at winning it.”

Merlin winked. “Now you’re thinking like a pro,” he said, earning a coy smile from the ex-druid. He leaned closer to the book. “Does it say anything about a cure?”

“Oh!” Mordred trailed his finger further down the first page, and halfway down the second. “Yes, here it is.” He whistled appraisingly. “This is a pretty powerful curse, Merlin. Not only do you have to cast a reversal spell, but the victim _also_ has to remember on their own.”

Merlin gave him a curious look.

“Like - think of it like this.” Mordred turned himself so he was facing Merlin fully, gazes almost meeting but not quite. Even with their former reconciliation, things were still awkward between them. “Imagine déan dearmad as trapping a bird in a cage. The curse being the cage and the bird being -”  
“The memories.”

“You can cast the reversal spell and open the cage door,” Mordred continued, unfazed by Merlin’s interruption. “But opening the door doesn’t force the bird to fly out, it has to do so willingly. That’s why you need someone who’s close to them, who can jog their memories and help coax their memories out.”

Hmm. He was the only one who knew both royals well enough to talk them both out of amnesia, but he couldn’t help them _and_ cast the spell…

So this was a two-person gig then. He’d need Mordred.

Mordred.

Why did he still have reservations? They had had a moment just the previous night, why was it so hard to trust him? Maybe because Merlin was used to doing this alone, maybe because he was afraid, maybe because there was still a small part of him that loathed Mordred for what he did in the vision.

No. He couldn’t. Pushing away Mordred out of fear was not the answer. And if he did hate Mordred for something he hadn’t even done yet (and hopefully never would), then it was Merlin’s own fault.

“Can I count on you to cast the spell?” Merlin asked in spite of himself. “I understand I’m asking a lot of you, but…” He swallowed hard. “I trust you, Mordred.”

Mordred’s eyes watered, lip puckered with raw emotion. “Y-you...even knowing my destiny?”

“Yeah.” Merlin nodded, and was surprised to find he actually meant it. “Like I said last night. If anyone can change destiny, it’s you and me.”

“But what if the spell rebounds and I accidentally kill Arthur? What if -”

Merlin placed a hand on his shoulder, and summoned his best Gaius impersonation for the task of comforting his friend. His _friend_. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I understand that I...I have my own prejudices around you, and you don’t deserve that. You deserve my complete faith, and I’m giving it to you.”

Mordred shook his head, holding loosely to his sprained wrist like it was a lifeline. Tears threatened to spill. “Y-you don’t think that faith is misplaced? For all we know, I could turn at any moment.”

“And if you do, then I’ll stop you. But you haven’t yet, so we have to hope that you never will. Alright?”

Still not seeming entirely convinced, Mordred nodded, and the two made haste for the king’s chambers.

* * *

 This was not a pleasant day.

Granted, it wasn’t like she had any idea what a ‘pleasant day’ was like in the first place. Everything from before that morning with the mysterious servant waking her up was a blank.

Guinevere Pendragon.

Elyan Leodegrance.

Merlin Leodegrance.

Leodegrance.

There was a fuzzy tickle in the corners of her mind that said those names _ought_ to elicit recognition. But she had about as much memory as ‘Arthur’ had patience.

“Let me out!” shouted the man called Arthur for what must have been the fiftieth time in that morning alone. Ever since the servant, Merlin, left them with more questions than answers, all Arthur had done was beat on the door and demand release. How he hadn’t screamed his throat bloody was a mystery on its own.

“They’re not going to open the door,” she said. “Merlin said so.”

Arthur threw his hands up in frustration. “Oh sure, _Merlin_ said so. Because _Merlin_ is the most trustworthy person ever.” He scoffed mean-spiritedly, but at least he had stopped all the racket. “I trust _Merlin_ about as far as I can throw him.”

Guinevere - Gwen, according to the servant - spared a glance at Arthur’s muscular arms. “I’d guess you can throw pretty far.”  
Arthur tossed his hands in the air and began pacing about the room with tantrumed stomps, muttering about how absurd this whole situation was and how as soon as _Merlin_ returned he’d sock him in the jaw. She, for one, hoped he didn’t, because Merlin looked like he could get knocked over by a particularly strong wind. He hadn’t a chance against...whatever Arthur was.

A warrior? A warlord? Merlin had said he was king, but if they were ‘married’, then that made her queen. And quite frankly, she didn’t feel like one.

Sure, a raid through the closet revealed a wealth of beautiful silks and sparkling jewelry. Sure, she wore a simple wedding band on her ring finger. Sure, she woke up sharing a massive, soft mattress with a supposed king. Sure, Merlin had called her ‘milady’. But did she feel like a queen?

Her hands were callused and she had the instincts to clear the table and obey Arthur’s needs, as infuriating as he was. She felt, intrinsically, that she was a servant at heart. So why was she a queen? Because she may not have had her memories, but she did have her knowledge. And she knew queens were only such by being born into riches. There was a chronic exhaustion crouched so deep into her that it ached her bones, which was hardly befitting a courtier, much less a _queen_.

Just another oddity to the whole mess that had become her life. Or perhaps her life had always been this complicated? Nothing made sense, and the more she pondered what she was missing, the worse her headache got. Best not to think too hard on it.

The doors flung open, and in came that Merlin Leodegrance character, now accompanied by another. This other one looked much like Merlin, except his hair was lighter, his face was younger, and he had more muscle on him.

The moment they pushed into the room, doors shutting behind them, Arthur roared. “What the hell is the meaning of all this!”

“All will make sense in just a few moments,” said Merlin. “This is my friend Sir Mordred. We’re going to try and -”

“To hell with you and your friends, you bastard! I want to know who you are, who she is, who _I_ am, where I am, and what’s going on! Why can’t I remember anything?! And where have you been this whole time, leaving us trapped in this room like _prisoners_?! Is that what we are?!”

Merlin held his hands in a placating gesture that did anything but placate. “Sire, if you could just calm down a moment -”  
“Calm down? _Calm down_?!”

The friend - a knight, by his attire - leaned in to whisper, “I see what you meant by confrontational.” Unfortunately, the boy was none too skilled in whispering, because everyone could hear him.

This only set Arthur off even more, and he charged off in stomping tirade, feet running and fists poised for an attack. Both the servant and knight took a few steps back, only for Arthur to somehow trip on his own feet and fall flat on his face. He must have taken quite the tumble, for he didn’t rise back up.

Merlin knelt down, eyes turned away and whispering something that didn’t sound like any language she’d ever heard. “He’s knocked himself out,” said Merlin when he rose once more. “He won’t bother us for a while.”

Gwen, a little shaken by the event that had just transpired, couldn’t help but flinch against the wall. “W-what’s going on?”

His eyes struck with heartbreak, perhaps at the lack of recognition in her voice. From what she could gather, the two of them had to be close, so he must have been taking it hard to have a loved one not remember him.

If only she knew who he was, so she could comfort him.

“Don’t worry, Gwen, Mordred and I are just here to help you get your memories back. From what we gather, you’ve been enchanted by someone who aimed to harm the crown.”

She gasped. “Have they succeeded?”

“They won’t, if we can help you remember.” He then turned to Mordred and said in a low voice, probably not intending for her to hear (but she always did have good ears), “Are you ready?”

In a slightly more careful whisper than last time, Mordred replied, “I don’t know.”

“You’ll do great.”

“But what if it...hurts her? What if we don’t do it right?”

“I said I trust you, Mordred, and I stand by that. I need you to do this for me.”

Mordred frowned but nodded.

“You remember the words?”

Another nod.

With that, Merlin turned back to Gwen and gestured to a seat at the table. “Please, Gwen, sit. I don’t know how well this’ll work, but I’m going to try and jog your memory. Is that okay?”

She didn’t _fully_ trust him, despite feeling she ought to. All the same, though, she might go mad with another minute of this brain-splitting confusion, and perhaps regaining her memories would fix her migraine. So Gwen took a seat as invited, and Merlin took the chair adjacent to her. He ran a hand through his hair. A nervous tick, she realized.

A hint of a murmur tickled at her mind, a voice much like Mordred’s echoing through her skull. _Cuimhnigh ar an rud a bhí faoi ghlas_ it said, and a wave of sensation rocked her nerves. She shuddered. She could have sworn she saw Mordred’s eyes turn gold just then, but it must have been a trick of the light.

“Hmm, where to start?” Merlin mused. “Well, my favourite memory of you...has to be the night after we rescued your brother Elyan from the Castle Fyrien.”

_Cuimhnigh ar an rud a bhí faoi ghlas_

“Elyan...he’s a good man, but he always had a hard time finding where he fit in. So he had a tendency to wander a bit, back in the day. But after Fyrien, you managed to pin him down and get him to stay home, start up work again in your father’s smithy - your father was a blacksmith, did I mention?”

Locked away in a dark cell, chained to the wall, sitting on a hay-padded stone floor. A man on the other wall, with dark skin and friendly, apologetic eyes.

_Cuimhnigh ar an rud a bhí faoi ghlas_

“Well,” the servant continued, lips graced into a nostalgic smile. “Naturally you wanted to celebrate his return, so you called for a ‘Leodegrance family night’. I snuck some bottles of wine from the royal cellar and smuggled them to your house.”

_Cuimhnigh ar an rud a bhí faoi ghlas_

“And I thought I’d just drop them off and carry on my merry way. But then you grabbed my wrist and said -”

“I want both my brothers with me tonight,” said Gwen, eyes wet with tears she couldn’t recall crying, saying words she didn’t remember speaking.

_Cuimhnigh ar an rud a bhí faoi ghlas_

Or did she?

Vague images tugged at her mind. Graves on hills, execution blocks, a frightened man in a cell, a boy with big ears holding her as she wept, a woman with sharp looks and remarkable dresses offering support and condolence.

_Cuimhnigh ar an rud a bhí faoi ghlas_

Heartened by her response, Merlin said, “Yes, and then I told you that I’m only a Leodegrance by name, as a result of an extremely convoluted situation I didn’t understand.” He chuckled. “Still don’t.”

_Cuimhnigh ar an rud a bhí faoi ghlas_

Yes, yes, they had been at the doorstep of her home - because she used to have a home outside this castle - with Elyan waiting inside setting up dinner. Merlin had thrusted the wine bottles into her hands, and prepared to dash off into the night without thanks. But then she grabbed him and begged him to stay.

“Family isn’t about blood,” she said vacantly, tearfully, for that had been her response the first time around. An errant hand flew up to her mouth, unable to quell the quivering of her lips. Merlin reached out to hesitantly rub her back, and she smiled at him through her tears. “It’s about love.”

_Cuimhnigh ar an rud a bhí faoi ghlas_

Merlin looked just as dumbstruck and touched - and guilty? - as he had in her memory.

She had a memory. A real, concrete memory to connect herself to.

_Cuimhnigh ar an rud a bhí faoi ghlas_

Guinevere Leodegrance, Guinevere Pendragon, maid of Morgana, enemy of Morgana, lover of Arthur, friend of Merlin, sister of Elyan, queen of Camelot, expert seamstress, skilled blacksmith, daughter of Tom and Enide Leodegrance.

Friend. Lover. Sister. Queen.

Gwen.

_Cuimhnigh ar an rud a bhí faoi ghlas_

She flew her arms around his neck, laughing and crying and letting out every emotion in between. “Oh, Merlin! I remember!”

The tingling presence withdrew from her mind as Merlin snaked his arms around her, holding her tight to him.

“It’s good to have you back,” he said, trying and failing to relieve the heartache from his voice.

She pulled back and held his face in her hands. “Merlin, how could I ever have _forgotten_ you? I’m so sorry -”

“Don’t,” he insisted, but ‘pleaded’ or ‘begged’ may be more accurate. “You couldn’t help it. You were enchanted. And at least you’re back in your own mind, right?”

She laughed, and he did too. Then Arthur’s prone, unconscious form caught the corner of her gaze, and she laughed all over again. Everyone, even Mordred, fell into a fit of contagious, uncontrollable laughter.

When Merlin snapped his fingers, Arthur woke up, but it was likely just a coincidence.

“You people again!” he shouted, rising to his feet and prepping a battle stance.

Merlin rolled his eyes, groaning as he stood up. “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

“Perhaps I’ll talk to Arthur about that,” Gwen joked in a conspiratorial tone. “When he’s in his right mind again.” They snickered together.

Arthur, however, was not pleased with their little display of camaraderie. “You!” he bellowed, pointing to Gwen. “You’re in collusion with them, aren’t you?!”

Seeing no point in arguing this, she shrugged. “I suppose I am.”

Before Arthur could charge or attack anyone again, Mordred started mouthing breathily, but she couldn’t discern what he was trying to say. She put it out of mind. Seeing Arthur reclaim his memories was her top priority at the moment.

Merlin opened his mouth and spoke with such unheard authority it sent shivers down her spine. It was enough to even halt Arthur in his steps. “Arthur Pendragon,” he said. His back was straight, his arms rigid. But his face was a soft, welcoming smile that felt of home.

Before he continued speaking, there was a flash. A brief lapse in his eyes where he failed to hide the deep, enigmatic, pained emotions he was so talented at hiding. She often relished in these little slip-ups, as Merlin was too private to share his feelings willingly.

“Arthur Pendragon,” he said, softer now. “Do you remember the questing beast? The night after your miracle recovery. Do you remember what I said?”

Arthur’s brows knit in confusion, uncertain stammering, just on the verge of a memory.

“I will gladly be your servant. Till the day I die.”

There was something entrancing about the way he said those simple words. As if they had millions of crevices and folds, each spiraling into a new world of secrets and loyalties. And each subterfuge, each loyalty, each vow, snaked its way to Arthur like roots to a tree. Finality shook his voice, vibrations wove a net of comfort and safety and promises of friendship. Of unconditional love. Of acceptance.

Arthur’s eyes widened impossibly so, face aghast and lungs gasping. His body trembled, and his knees buckled. Merlin caught him, as he always did.

Clutching his temple, Arthur tried to recover his balance - with Merlin’s help, of course.

“You feeling better, sire?” Merlin joked. And just like that, all the intensity and gratitude in Arthur’s eyes ebbed.

“Yes. Well.” The king cleared his throat. “Have you polished my armour yet, Merlin?”

Merlin threw his usual lopsided grin. “I’ll get right on it, sire.” Before he left, he gave Mordred two thumbs-up. “Thanks, Mordred. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Mordred, whose eyes were strangely damp, gave the smile of a lost child who had now been found.

Hmm. It was about time those two started getting along.

* * *

 Emrys was meant to hate the Druid. His hate was meant to push the Druid away. The Druid was meant to use Emrys’s hate to fuel his own. The Druid was meant to accept the Witch’s way, slaughter the Once and Future King at Camlann and then die at the hands of his own victim. Emrys was meant to confess his secrets and carry the King to the Lake of Avalon, defeat the Witch, and then just barely fail to save his beloved King.

Then Emrys was meant to simmer in his own immortality for three thousand years, when the Once and Future King would fulfill his destiny and pull humanity from the throes of apocalypse. Then, having fulfilled his purpose, Emrys would die, and destiny would be complete at last.

Camelot would fall to ashes, its people all dying in bloody, painful ways. Emrys would become a shell of himself, torn apart by the trauma of centuries.

But they didn’t hate each other. They were _friends_.

Which meant…

His visions of death and destruction. Could they be prevented?

His masters always told him that the future was set in stone, that one could not change fate. That no amount of visions could have prevented the inevitable.

But this changed everything. His visions always told him of the animosity between Emrys and the Druid. Yet, none of that was present here.

Even so, this wasn’t enough to ensure Camlann never came to pass.

He would have to intervene. He would have to help Emrys change that damnable future.

He may not have been able to save his family. But maybe he could save Albion instead.


	2. The Tavern Cat's Jig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Austin continues to scheme, Gwaine goes missing, and Merlin makes a new friend.

Back in a simpler time, back before dragonlords and friends turned traitors, back before he became crushed under the weight of destiny, Merlin repaid a debt.

Lancelot used to swear up and down that there was no such debt, and that it was he in fact who owed Merlin. Merlin had defeated the griffin, helped him escape an unpleasant life with Hengist, and would later go on to help Lancelot achieve the knighthood he dearly craved (a second time). It was through Merlin’s friendship that Lancelot found a family where he last expected it to be.

It was just three months before the whole Idirsholas-hemlock-dragon debacle. Three months before Merlin, a man who had faced countless threats before with a smile on his face, finally lost his innocence (he would spend the next few years trying to find it again, and dare he say it he was finally getting close).

Lancelot had been wandering, offering his help to whomever needed it, exchanging letters with Merlin at each town he settled into. He had just helped spirit away a young maiden from her abusive husband. Her name was Delara, and she had such a dainty appearance he always feared she would break like glass - even though she had proven more talented with a sword than even him. Delara reminded him of Merlin, in a way, in that they both looked far less capable than they actually were. Perhaps that was the reason he was so drawn to her.

“Here’s fifteen gold,” he said, and placed a leather coin sack in her fragile, calloused hands. “This should be enough to find you a room at the inn, help you get back on your feet, and start a new life.”

She craned her neck up to look at his face, for she was short enough to pass for early adolescence. Her dowy brown eyes were glossed with tears, and her left eye had a purple swell. “Th-thank you, sir. How can I -” she hiccuped. “How can I e-ever repay you?”

He wiped away one of her tears and cupped her bruised jaw. “You can repay me by taking care of yourself. Alright, Delara?”

She nodded vigorously. “I-I won’t forget this, Lan-n-celot-t.”

They hugged, and he let her dampen his shirt with tears for a while, until her body shook less and her hands steadied. “Will you...stay wi-with me?”

He pursed his lips in contemplation. He had informed Merlin that he would be in Billuth by the next day, and not arriving on time could cause Merlin undue trouble. All the same, Delara had need for him. And who was he to turn down someone in need?

That was how he spent what little coin he still had renting out a room in Garian, instead of plowing on to Billuth and taking up that temporary squire job Merlin had set up for him there.

That was how he awoke in the middle of the night to the sounds of screaming.

That was how Lancelot brought his sword out with him to the muddy, downpoured village square to find black-clad men pillaging people’s homes.

That was how Lancelot wound up fighting twenty men with naught but a rusty old sword.

That was how Lancelot, as skilled as he was, lost the fight and ended up in the captivity of...bandits? Slave traders? Years later, he never found out what exactly they were. Just that they were an unsavory band of individuals who liked to abduct entire villages at a time.

All of them wound up in a dark, underground cell with not so much as a window and their only source of light being a single wall sconce that was slowly flickering out. The space was no larger than Gaius’s chambers, and crammed with no less than thirty people. Judging by some of their ragged, skeletal silhouettes, he would guess that most of his cellmates had been there for quite a while.

“What is this place?” Lancelot asked, half to the darkness and half to the huddled masses. He didn’t expect a response, so it was surprising to not only receive one, but to receive one from such a healthy-looking individual.

The man who responded to him was a large, muscular tree of a man, with short dishwater hair and no shirt. “This is the holding chamber,” said the man. “They keep us here most of the time, but every once in a while they pull one of us out for ransom.”

“They’re going to ransom us?”

The man nodded. “I haven’t been ransomed yet, but I overheard the guards saying as much. He Apparently, they cast this sort of spell that narrows out the one person in the world most willing to pay for your freedom, and then the spell magically sends them the ransom.”

Lancelot frowned. He’d spent much of his upbringing as a street urchin after his village was raided by bandits, so he didn’t have any living relatives to accept the ransom. And when he thought about people who cared about him, people willing to help him...it was a matter of either Guinevere or Merlin. And neither of those options seemed appealing. Sure, they could both hold their own in a fight, but you couldn’t fault him for worrying. He didn’t want to burden those two more than he already had, no matter how much they would assure him that it really was no trouble at all.

“I see,” said Lancelot. “How long have you been here?”

With a shrug, the man said, “About a week, I reckon. It’s not so bad. They don’t feed us much, but we’ve set up a pretty good ration system to make sure everyone gets their share. The name’s Percival, by the way.”

The man, Percival, held out his hand, and Lancelot shook it. “I’m Lancelot. Pleasure to meet you, Percival. I just wish it were in better circumstances than this.”

And so it was. Percival and Lancelot both sat beside each other, squished up in a sea of scrawny bodies, swapping stories to pass the time. Percival taught about his beloved sister Lenevra, his uncle Falk, his wonderful little farming village of Haldor, and the nearby druid colony that would sometimes hold parades in the streets during Yule. Magic may have been illegal but so long as no one’s eyes flashed gold, everyone was willing to turn a blind eye to the law. They all loved the parades, after all.

Lancelot, in turn, shared stories about his many travels, and all the people he had met along the way. From Delara to Duncan, to the fishing village he saved from giants, to a rather peculiar young man with a fondness for neckerchiefs and a knack for taking in strays.

It was hard to tell how much time passed down there, but most captives measured the passage of time by the feeding schedule. As far as anyone knew they only got fed once a day, so they had a rough estimate of how long they were down there by how much they got to eat. During Lancelot’s period of captivity, he’d been fed six times.

On the seventh time, the cell door opened and everyone scooted back as far as they could - as was customary when someone was selected for ransom, as the thugs usually snagged whomever was closest, and when the spell found no one willing to pay then there were usually torturous consequences.

This was Lancelot’s third experience with the ransom ritual. Each time he’d been tempted to volunteer himself to be taken, but the first time Percival had held him back, and the second time Lancelot realized that being ransomed meant either Guinevere or Merlin would be pressed to _pay_ that ransom. And that, of course, was not something he could allow. So while it hurt to watch other people get carted away, never to return, he knew it was all to protect his friends.

Of course, this third time, Percival didn’t manage to tug him back fast enough, and one of the thugs snagged their hands on his shoulders first. A second thug rode up on his other side, both of them wrenching his arms rather painfully and dragging him out of the cell. The cell door slammed forcefully behind him.

“Lancelot!” Percival shouted, who could be heard rattling against the cell bars even as the former knight was dragged down the hall. Then there was a loud sound of smacked flesh, and the shouts stopped.

The hall was long and narrow, with plenty of wall sconces and torches but somehow only slightly brighter than the cell. Even so, Lancelot still had to squint his eyes, as he’d grown accustomed to the dark.

The walls were bumpy and made of what felt to be limestone, and the stone floor scraped against his bare feet as his thug escorts pulled him along by his elbows. He would have made some escape attempts like he had on his third day, but it was all a bit difficult with his ankles chained together and his sword gone. And as gaunt and starved as he had become in the past week, Lancelot didn’t have much fight left in him. It would have been easier on everyone if he just went along with it, no matter how little he fancied the idea of his friends getting involved in his troubles.

The room they pulled him into was small and dusty, with a chalky white film caking the floor. There was a single curved window on the farthest wall, barred by iron and letting in only slight glimpses of the moon. The moonlight cast a milky beam of light upon the center of the room, which held a little round table covered in a satin table cloth. Atop it was a box stuffed and cushioned with lilac silks, and amidst those silks sat a jagged stone. As choppy and sharp as it was, it could have been obsidian, if not for the deep blooded shade that glinted in the moonlight.

A man stepped away from the leftmost wall, arms crossed against his chest and a black scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face. “Bring him to the gem,” said the man, voice dripping with apathy and exhaustion. He made way for the table, gesturing for Lancelot’s escorts to do the same.

Lancelot didn’t have enough energy to struggle as they shoved his face against the table, nor as the man lifted the jewel above both their heads with a menacing chant of, _“ancymþ gehwilc frēost hine mæst”_ over and over again. Each time the man chanted the spell, the jewel glowed brighter and the chanting grew louder. Or perhaps it was just Lancelot’s mounting headache that simply exacerbated the volume. It was hard to tell.

But before he had much time to contemplate the subject, the chanting stopped. The man let out a satisfied grunt. “Ah, here we go. Merlin Leodegrance. Lives in Camelot. The jewel says he’s your best friend, eh? Must be mighty close, given the hefty prices he’s willing to pay for your useless skin.”

If he had the energy or nerve, Lancelot would have groaned. Of _course_ it had to be Merlin. And sure, he preferred it this way. While Guinevere was highly skilled in all matters of the blade, if he was going to endanger a friend he would rather it be the literal all-powerful warlock instead. But all-powerful or not, Lancelot still wasn’t happy about it. Merlin didn’t deserve to be bothered with this.

The man whispered another spell, and a quill and parchment summoned to his fingertips. “Dear Merlin Leodegrance of Camelot,” the man said aloud, the quill moving on its own along the paper. Transcripting his words, no doubt. “I have your friend...Lancelot...captive, and will continue to hold him in my dungeon until either slave traders agree to buy him, or you pay me a fee of three hundred gold.”

This time, Lancelot did groan, which courtesied him with his face being smashed further into the table by one of the goons. Three hundred? Prince’s servant though he might have been, that was still far beyond a year’s worth of wages for him. Of course, knowing Merlin, he could easily magic something up. For someone so good-hearted, he certainly had quite the scheming streak.

“If you are willing to do so,” the man continued, and not once did the quill dip in ink. Must have been enchanted like that, because of course it was. These things always were. “Collect the funds and, with letter in hand, say ‘I accept’ out loud. The letter will teleport you to a rendezvous location where the transaction shall be held. Failure to comply within three days will result in your friend’s torturous and painful death. Pleasure doing business with you, Jelair.” The sorcerer, Jelair, cast another spell and the letter vanished into flames.

He had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. What kind of mother named their child _Jelair_? And what kind of kidnapper signed their ransom notes like that? It all seemed rather ridiculous, and if Merlin were here he would have laughed as well.

Lancelot was informed he’d be staying in that room with the jewel until Merlin showed up, but fortunately he didn’t have to wait with those crooks for very long. It took what felt like ten minutes before a whisk of smoke blew into the corner of the room, summoning an achingly familiar face into its midst.

“Lancelot!” Merlin shouted, eyes bugged out in concern and relief. He stepped closer to his friend, only to be blocked off by one of the goons. At that, he turned his attention to Jelair with dangerously narrowed eyes. “Let him go.”

Jelair whistled. “That was fast. You sure do care about this pathetic creature, don’t you.”

“His name is _Lancelot_. Now let him go, and we won’t have to do this the hard way.”

Jelair held out a meaty hand. “Right you are. Hand me the gold, then I’ll hand over your friend. It’s that simple, boy.”

Merlin grimaced. “Why does everyone call me a boy? I’m nearly of age.” Then under his breath he murmured, “I think.”

Jelair only laughed. “The money, _boy_. Now. Before my fingers get itchy and slice your friend’s neck.”

With a casual shrug, Merlin said, “Mm, I don’t think so.” Then his eyes flashed gold, not a spell passing his lips, and all three criminals flew into the wall. Unconscious, the lot of them.

Merlin helped Lancelot up to his feet, muttered a spell that sprung his friend’s ankles free, and guided him back down the hall.

“We need to free the others first,” Lancelot insisted, pointing a shaky, emaciated finger back in the direction of the cell.

Merlin nodded. “Right.”

There were five cells in total, each holding a maximum of fifty men, women, and children of all ages. The youngest being a toddler, and the oldest being a woman so decrepit that her wrinkles had wrinkles (Lancelot carried her on his back, while Merlin held the toddler in his hip). So far, no one had noticed Merlin casting spells to open their cell doors and undo their shackles, and if they did, no one brought it up. Both of them were rather relieved at that, and Lancelot vowed to pull his friend aside for a nice long chat about being more discrete with his magic. Really, that boy had the self-preservation instincts of a drunk snail.

While a group of the strongest ex-captives set to work disengaging the captors and finding a way out, Merlin and Lancelot made way for the fifth and final cell. The one Lancelot and Percival had been held in.

With a quiet, _“Swefe nu”_ on Merlin’s part, both guards to the cell dropped unconscious, and with an even quieter _“Tospringe”_ the door sprung open.

“Lancelot!” Percival cheered, but stopped to help Old Man Luther up to his feet first before tackling his new friend into a massive bear hug. He turned his head up from the embrace to catch his gaze upon a rather sheepish - if impatient - Merlin.

Noticing his curious gaze towards the warlock, Lancelot said, “Percival, this is Merlin. The young man I was telling you about.”

“Ah, the one with the scarves! I see it now.” Percival held out his hand, which Merlin shook with a grin on his face. Yes, Merlin really was in his element when he was meeting new people. “I’m Percival. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I’m Merlin.” Merlin flashed Lancelot his cheekiest of grins. “You talk about me, Lancelot? All good things, I hope.”

Lancelot chuckled and gripped his friend’s shoulder. “We’ll have time for that later. In the meantime, let’s try and get out of this wretched place.”

* * *

 

It was another ex-captive, a middle-aged woman named Olivia, who found the door out. Two others named Ethan and Heathcliff managed to take out the thugs guarding it, and everyone else ran out into the surrounding woods like their lives depended on it (because they did). Yet another ex-captive named Jason was the one who ended up taking in the toddler to try and find the child’s family.

To make sure no one got left behind, Merlin, Lancelot, and Percival wound up being the last to escape, and it was nearly sunrise by the time they did. Once they were certain no one was left in the lair, the three of them wasted little time running as far as they could, and Merlin assured Lancelot by casting a spell that would prevent Jelair from tracking them.

The trio kept walking until nightfall, where they camped out by a small stream. Percival and Merlin caught on like a house on fire, Merlin gave them both their first tastes of his delicious rabbit stew, and he spent much of the evening tending to their captivity-borne injuries.

“Won’t the prince miss you?” Lancelot asked. The flickering campfire cast shadows upon the servant as he used his neckerchief to bind Percival’s sprained ankle.

Merlin shrugged. “Eh. He’ll probably just assume I’ve been in the tavern and put me in the stocks for a few days.”

Percival chuckled. “From the sounds of it, I’m surprised you haven’t been fired. Do you do this often? Run off for days at a time?”

A shrug. “I suppose I’ve been making a habit of it, yeah. And trust me, I’m just as confused as you are as to how I have kept my job this long.”

And thus the night continued like that, laughing and joking and getting to know one another. They refrained from sharing Merlin’s magic with Percival as a caution, despite both of them feeling they could trust him. But otherwise, all topics were on the table, and for the first time since watching his family die, Lancelot felt like he truly belonged somewhere.

The next day, Merlin continued to make sure they were well-fed and rested before the three wandered into the nearest human settlement: a village so small it didn’t even have a name. Merlin paid a few coppers in exchange for their hospitality, and then a few more for a set of horses.

Percival was headed for his home in Haldor and had extended an invitation for his two new friends to stay with him as long as they needed, but Merlin had to get back to Camelot “before the prince gets into trouble again. I swear, he attracts assassins like moths to a torch”.

And just as seamlessly as he arrived into their lives, the he left. And while Merlin headed for Camelot, unaware he would meet and lose Freya just days after his return, Percival and Lancelot took their new horses and made way for Haldor.

Haldor was exactly as Percival had described it, but not as much the idyllic sunshine-and-meadows wonderland Lancelot had subconsciously imagined. It was a peaceful little town where everyone knew and got along with everyone, yes. But it also admittedly got lots of heavy rain. So heavy, in fact, that Lancelot had half a mind to call in Merlin and ask him to enchant the clouds away. But he didn’t, despite their correspondences becoming more frequent.

Lancelot hadn’t planned to stay at Percival’s home longer than it took to recuperate from the weakness sustained in captivity, but the Efrawg family took quite the liking to him and encouraged him to overstay his welcome. Lancelot found a job as a hunter, and spent much of his spare time teaching the young men how to wield a sword. No one ever became as skilled as Percival, though, and more often than not the two found themselves sparring during lazy afternoons.

For a good long while, Lancelot felt like nothing could go wrong.

Then, nearly a week before the two-year anniversary of his stay in Haldor, Percival’s uncle Falk began to go mad. He just woke up one day, driven to babbling insanity without an apparent cause. Constantly ranting and raving about the end times, about men who could not die, about spilt blood and mutilated corpses. “You have to get out of here!” he would often shout while running up and down the village’s main road. “It isn’t safe! Cenred’s men are coming and you’ll all die! Run, you fools!”

Lancelot figured to write Merlin for consultation on what everyone believed to be a magical ailment, but all Merlin could suggest was to bring Falk to Camelot and have Gaius look him over.

On the fifteenth day of Falk’s sudden descent into madness, Percival’s father Rodrig Efrawg had decidedly had enough. Falk had just tried to abduct little Effie, trying to ‘save her’, and that had apparently been the last straw. He tasked Percival with taking Falk to Camelot to have him inspected by the Court Physician, and Lancelot was going to escort them to the border (he _was_ more or less in exile, after all).

But it was when they passed through the town of Coperell that they realized something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

Coperell was usually rather bustling, with a great wealth of taverns and an even greater wealth of drunks and perverts. Seldom passed a day where there was neither a crime committed nor an expensive transaction made, nor at least one person screaming loudly for no good reason. One time, when Lancelot went there to retrieve fever medication for Percival’s ill cousin, there had even been a cluster of drunk men streaking past completely nude (Gwaine once proudly confessed to having been a part of that group).

So to find it so desolate and empty...it was unsettling, at the very least. No one drinking ale in the tavern, no one trying to look up a lady’s skirt by the side of the road, no out-of-control horse barrelling into buildings and carts, no lively hum at the marketplace.

At first, given their experience, Percival and Lancelot warily believed it to be the work of the ransomers. But then they saw the bodies. Dead, bloody, strewn about. Not a survivor to be seen, and certainly not within the ransomers’ mode of operation.

Falk then shrieked out, “We’re too late! They’ve killed everyone! They killed my darling Effie!” And Percival, not willing to risk Falk’s ravings being true, rerouted back home. The way back was silent and pensive, both of them praying dearly that whatever had happened to Coperell had not befallen Haldor. Praying that Falk’s mumblings about immortal armies and dead families were nothing more than the fantasies of a madman.

Needless to say, they should have listened to Falk.

Needless to say, they were both thoroughly devastated by the sight of blood splattered across the dirt. Of detached hands and severed heads. Of vacant eyes and the stiff, red bodies of children far too young to die so gruesomely. Not a soul spared.

They both fell to their knees and openly wept for a home, lost.

It took a few days for all the bodies to be rounded up and lit in a ceremonial pyre, made even more difficult by Percival’s shock trance. He seldom moved or ate, unless expressly ordered to, and remained the most lifeless Lancelot had ever seen a living person be. He acted almost more dead than the corpses themselves, and it was up to Lancelot to perform the rituals and give the farewell speeches.

Lancelot cleaned up their old house, torn apart and upended by the raid as it was, coaxing a mind-numbed Percival about as best he could. Neither of them knew where Falk had gone, and Lancelot had been so busy tending to his broken friend that by the time he realized the crazed man was missing, it was too late to find him.

A few days of melancholy later, and a messenger strolled hesitantly through the nigh vacant town. And clutched in his bony grasp was a letter addressed to one Lancelot Benwick that would change their lives forever.

 

_Dear Lancelot,_

_I would not request this of you unless it was of the utmost importance. I understand you’re rather occupied by the situation with Uncle Falk, and I wouldn’t want to take you away from such an important moment. Family comes first in times like these, if you’ve got family worth defending. But if you do have a few days to spare and are willing, I need help._

_Remember how I said that Morgana was blatantly committing treason, and had made numerous attempts on my life and the lives of the Pendragons? Well, I’ve finally failed to stop her this time. She’s taken over Camelot, with help from a sorceress named Morgause and Cenred. They’ve used something called the Cup of Life to make Cenred’s men immortal and undying. I don’t know what it’s like for you guys where you are but I understand that Haldor is close to both Cenred’s kingdom and Camelot, so your village may be at risk of attack. They leave no survivors, only bloodshed and massacre. You can’t hope to fight them, because they don’t die. Run, if you can._

_And if you can, run towards Camelot. We’re in need of all the help we can get here. I’m doing all I can to boost morale, but optimism alone isn’t enough to save a kingdom._

_Again, I won’t fault you for staying in Haldor to protect your people and look after Falk, but it’d be great of you if you came and fought with us. No matter the outcome, I want you and Percival both to know that you’re good friends, and I can die happy knowing I’ve met you._

_On the back of this letter is a way to find our current hiding spot. Feel free to join the party! I think you and Elyan would really get along._

_Until we meet again, unless I die bravely protecting the prat as always,_

_Merlin_

 

According to the letter, they finally had a name and a face to the ones who’d killed the people of Haldor. But how would Percival take this?

Lancelot turned to his heartbroken friend, who gripped the edges of the letter with shaky hands and wet eyes. But when he took a closer look, he saw not emptiness and mourning like he usually did.

No. In Percival’s eyes, there was fire.

* * *

 Falk did not know how long he wandered, or how he didn’t get attacked by either immortal soldiers or bandits or the like along the way. But somehow, _somehow_ , his fractured mind and fumbling feet managed to work him all the way to Helva. Whether it was coincidence or fate, he would never truly know.

His teacher, Finna, would always advocate for the latter, and while Falk was inclined to agree he rather liked the idea of his life coming back together by random chance. Made the universe seem a bit more cosmic, if you asked him.

After stumbling away from his bloody, bloody town, screaming and wailing at how he’d dreamt of this future for three weeks straight and had still failed to change it, Finna took him in. Nay, all of Helva took him in.

There was Elaine and her ribbon cart, always happy to enchant her silks to dance to the tune of Mr. Jeb's self-playing fiddle. Provided that such a silk performance earned her a copper for her troubles, of course.

Then there were Trout and Misty, two bizarre children with even stranger parents. No one knew why they had the tradition of tying cat corpses to trees at the stroke of midnight under every third half-moon, but it certainly wasn’t part of the Old Religion. But they always brought the best dishes to the harvest festival potluck, so most people tried not to question them (nor question what kind of meat was in their stew…).

Wilson the blacksmith wasn’t the only non-magical person in Helva, but he was certainly the most vocal about his distaste for it. Not out of any prejudicial Purge nonsense, no. Rather that his apprentice Jack had magic and Wilson constantly felt overshadowed by him because of it, despite Jack being just shy of thirteen and blind in one eye.

There was Finna’s widowed neighbour Omie, a personal favourite of Falk’s, who owned a lot more ravens than any one person had any right to have. She told lots of stories, and looked so old she might have outlived the mountains themselves. She claimed she’d “lived long enough to learn the language of falcons”, which begged the question of why she could be seen with literally every kind of bird _except_ falcons. Omie wasn’t even her real name, but whenever someone asked what it was, she’d just get a mischievous flash of gold in her eyes and magically seal their lips together until they agreed to have dinner with her.

Then there was Finna herself, of course. It was Finna who had found Falk trembling and moaning at the base of a tree, clawing at his eyes and begging someone to scrub out all the nightmares he’d been plagued with as of late. She had pulled him to his feet and got him cleaned up. She taught him that they weren’t nightmares, that he wasn’t a monster, and that he wasn’t to blame for not saving his village. That was just how fate fell.

“You’re a Seer,” she explained as she wiped mud off his face with a warm, wet rag. “From what you say, you must have only just recently developed your gift. I must say, I’ve never met someone who grew into their Sight so late in life.” She shrugged noncommittally, but her voice was still kind and light. “Well, I suppose it’s possible to teach an old dog new tricks after all.”

From there, Finna found him a little cottage of his own, nursed him back to sanity, and brought him under her tutelage to master his newfound abilities. A year later, he managed to scry for his sole surviving relative, Percival, and found him to be a knight of Camelot. A mix of emotions flooded him. Pride at his boy for achieving such a high station, relief that he was alright, shame at abandoning him, and fear because knights of Camelot _killed_ people like Falk.

No, Falk could never get close. As much as it pained him to be apart from his dear nephew, he could not risk his life in such a way. It made him feel ill to be such a coward, especially as he had to watch from afar as Percival mourned Lancelot’s death, but Finna promised it was how things were supposed to be.

Naturally, Falk had been more than a little distressed when his visions of the future started getting darker and more destiny-heavy. Druids living and dying and betraying. Warlocks fighting and failing and living forever. His dear, sweet Percival unable to do anything about it as countless more loved ones slipped through his fingers.

Oh Percival, his poor nephew who had lost and suffered much. Emrys was there to comfort him out of his bad days, sure, and from what his scrying could glean, their friendship did them both worlds of good. But knowing how much Percival would have to endure in the future, knowing he was helpless to prevent the flow of destiny…

But then the Druid and Emrys started getting along, and all of destiny experienced a shivering ripple. Finna warned him that fate was pliable but destiny was inevitable, and that no matter what they did it would all still end at Camlann. But this ripple gave Falk hope regardless, hope that maybe he could change things after all.

If he just created a big enough change, that is. A new player. They needed a new player. An old player, perhaps? Someone who would shake things up. And they’d have to do something about the Witch, of course, to prevent her from turning the Druid to darkness. But what to do, what to change...

He spent many days meditating in that small shack of his, contemplating, running simulation after simulation in his mind of what all he would have to alter to ensure a happy ending for all involved. “To hell with destiny” became his new mantra, something that upset Finna and the other Seers in Helva, but few called him out on it.

Yes. He would fix this. Just wait and see.

* * *

 Mordred slumped against the table, gritting his teeth as Gaius pulled another stitch through his arm. He yelped.

“Ah! Careful, Gaius, please,” he seethed out.

“I did warn you this would hurt,” Gaius chided coolly, and Merlin could only snicker.

“Now you understand my pain,” the warlock joked. “You know Gaius, for a physician, you’ve got terrible bedside manner.”

Gaius cocked his brow. “And where did you learn a term like that?”

Shrugging, Merlin replied, “Eh, I think I overheard Tian use it.”

“Tian?” both Mordred and Gaius asked in unison.

Merlin sighed. “You know. Tian. Big beefy guy from the mainland? Captain of that cargo envoy that rolled through Camelot a few months ago?”

Mordred yelped again as Gaius tugged some more on the thick black stitching wire, while Gaius himself just shook his head in a low chuckle. “Your ability to network knows no bounds, Merlin. I’ve lived here my whole life and still you know more people than I.”

Merlin gave an impish shrug. “What can I say? It’s part of my charm.”

It had been two weeks since the incident with Lord Austin and the amnesia charm, and the pace of things in Camelot had only picked right back up. It had been naive of Merlin to think things would calm right back down as soon as soon as that mess got sorted out, a naivete he was sorely suffering for.

Mordred, naturally, was fuming at how Lord Austin managed to get away with enchanting the royal couple like that. Merlin simply sighed and shrugged, and told him that without proper evidence, between a servant and a novice knight they were unlikely to peg an accusation that stuck. Even if said servant and knight were highly respected members of court, whom Arthur trusted with his life, Arthur was a fair man. He wouldn’t trial Austin without definitive proof, no matter if his own wife was making the claims.

And then, of course, there was the matter of blackmail. Austin knew that the only way to lift the memory charm was with magic, and it wasn’t hard to connect the dots back to the gutsy servant who was giving him a hard time. In short, if they outed Austin, he would out Merlin. And even if Merlin was in Arthur’s good graces farther than Austin could ever hope to get, any amount of exposure was too big a risk.

“If Austin sends _one more assassin_ ,” Mordred griped, voice chipping at the end. “I might just turn in my cape and go live with the druids again.”

Merlin nudged him, but this only aggravated his stitches, eliciting a pained hiss. ”Aw, c’mon Mordred, don’t be like that. I thought you were supposed to be a big brave Sir Knight, hmm? Knights of Camelot don’t back down just because some snooty noble won’t quit.”

“Five,” Mordred bellowed. “ _Five_ assassins. In two weeks. All hired by the same man. Not to mention the four other enchantments he had his little manservant cast."

Ah yes, those had been.. _.fun_ ...to deal with. Especially with Austin's blackmail hanging over their heads.

There was the enchantment cast on the king’s crown that made Arthur break down crying in front of the council, and Merlin had an interesting time trying to fix the aftermath of that whole mess. Then the curse placed on the knights that made them all debilitatingly clumsy, that sent Mordred and Merlin on a quest to track down a magic horseshoe that would lift its effects. Then there was the snake-speak fiasco, where Arthur was only capable of speaking in hisses for a full day. And don’t even get Merlin _started_ on when Lord Austin thought it was a good idea to dreamwalk into Arthur’s head to fish for military secrets, only for them both to get trapped in the king’s mind and require Merlin’s help getting them out.

Luckily, the guards who knew of Merlin’s suspicions were also well-versed in the don’t-expose-the-suspect-without-Merlin’s-say-so policy, so no one had yet spoken out and risked the warlock’s secret.

“Dinadan, you mean. His servant’s name is Dinadan.”

“Whatever! If the Austins never return to Camelot, it will be too soon.”

Gaius snipped away at the thread, and patted Mordred gently on the shoulder. “Alright, you’re all set, Sir Mordred. But do try to be more careful next time.”

Mordred tossed his head back with a groan. “Please let there never be a next time.”

“Oh trust me, Mordred, there will be _lots_ of next times,” Merlin said devilishly. He helped the knight onto his feet and handed him his chainmail. “One time, I had to stop Morgana’s plot to kill Arthur with a pair of deadly enchanted boots -”

Mordred chortled, incredulous. “Deadly boots?”

“Quite. They tried to strangle me.”

Mordred just stared at him for a long moment, trying to determine the truth of Merlin’s claim. Which was a shame, because Merlin was being dead serious.

“So I saved Arthur from a pair of deadly boots,” he continued, as though he were talking about the weather. “Saved Uther from an assassin, traveled all the way to Mercia to help Gwaine sort out his gambling debts, tracked down a food poisoner, lifted another love spell cast on Arthur, and destroyed an enchanted arrow that had lodged itself in my shoulder - all in just three days.”

Mordred sighed as he lifted his chainmail over his head. “This saviour-of-Camelot stuff is _exhausting_ . I get more scars helping you than I do on patrol.”   
Merlin rolled his eyes. “Welcome to my world.” In a more serious tone he added, “But if you really are frustrated by it then you don’t have to help, you know.”

The knight shook his head fervently, as though the mere notion of abandoning Merlin’s help revolted him. “Although, I do have to ask: how does Arthur not notice any of this? Surely five assassins and four enchantments in the span of two weeks, all after Lord Austin’s arrival, would have been at least a bit suspicious. Even Gwaine is starting to have his doubts, and he’s about as observant as a tankard of mead.”

“Trust me, Mordred. Arthur is _less_ observant than a tankard of mead,” Merlin deadpanned.

The two of them shared a laugh, but it was short-lived as Gaius then turned to shoo Mordred towards the door. He had a night patrol of the lower town to attend soon, after all, and needed time to rest up that injury before he left. “Off you go. You won’t get any rest by standing here gossiping with Merlin like a pair of hens.”

“You’re right, Gaius,” said Mordred with a courteous head-bow, ever respectful when it mattered. “Thank you for your help.”

Gaius bowed in kind. “You could learn a manner or two from him, Merlin.”

Merlin just glowered, but there was no real heat to it.

Mordred simply smiled and waved as he passed through the doorway of the physician’s chambers, a telepathic _See you later Emrys_ lingering in his wake.

As much as Lord Austin was a pain in the arse, at least it had rallied him and Mordred together. And the more times Mordred saved his king’s life, the more confident the young knight became that he wouldn’t switch sides as prophesied. In fact, with each of Lord Austin’s plots they foiled, Merlin saw the former druid less and less as a potential enemy, and more as a confidant.

Well, certainly not a _complete_ confidant. There were some things he never even told Lancelot or Gaius. But enough of a confidant, at least, to make this whole saving Camelot from the shadows thing slightly more bearable than it had been in a long time.

So if Mordred _did_ turn evil, Merlin would be all the more heartbroken.

He tried not to think about it.

(They both did)

* * *

 Dinadan Gorrs was only fourteen. Certainly not old enough to spend the night at the tavern. And normally he wouldn’t, if not for Lord Austin’s express orders.

The transformation enchantment made everything feel strange. Where his body was usually thin and sallow, the enchantment in place made him appear bulky and tan. Where his face was usually youthful and clear, now it was scarred and pock-marked with age. Where his hair was usually a light auburn, now it was stark blonde.

He shifted his weight, which had increased with the rest of him in the transformation. Everything had changed, everything felt different. Being trapped in his own body, forbidden from astral projecting like he wanted, was already agonizing enough. But this? Suffering in a body that wasn’t even his normal one? Perhaps it would have been better if they killed him now.

Of course, he couldn’t allow that. He would not and could not let his master down. They had only a few days left before they had to return to the Withering Steppes, and Austin was getting antsy in the face of all his failed murder plots. He had to get this right. This was their last chance to kill the king.

To compensate for expected interference from that servant-knight duo who had stopped them thus far, this latest plot was far more audacious - and complicated - than anything Dinadan had ever pulled off before.

He sighed, summoning his courage and dawning his best I’m-a-Grown-Up-Who-Goes-to-Taverns-and-Eats-Kittens-for-a-Living face. He pushed the door to the Rising Sun, faux smile flashing. He puffed out his chest in the hopes that it would make him seem more adult-like. Judging by the increased suspicion in everyone’s eyes, that probably was the wrong way to go about things.

Alright, where was that man he was supposed to enchant? By what he managed to gather from the previous day’s reconnaissance, this tavern - all taverns, really - happened to be a favourite haunt of his target. Shaggy brown hair at shoulder length, brown eyes, scruffy - ah! There he was.

Continuing to strut about in his best impression of how a tavern-goer might act, Dinadan marched right up to the table where his target sat. His name was Sir Gwaine. One of the knights within His Majesty’s most trusted circle (the Round Table, they were called). And based on the servant’s observations, Gwaine also happened to be Merlin’s best friend and a mentor figure to Sir Mordred.

Gwaine was sat at the head of a crooked table, buxom maidens swooning on either side of him and no less than twelve tankards sprawled before him. His loud, booming voice groused out an elaborate story about enchanted armbands, wyverns, and a trident, throwing in the occasional “but princess says it never happened” for good measure.

Soul pounding under his skin, throbbing against the rune that forbade him from astral projecting, Dinadan clenched his now muscular fists and stepped up to the table.

Just as he had practiced with Lord Austin, he grumbled out, “Are you Sir Gwaine?” His transformed voice felt scratchy and raw, and made him all the more anxious to get this over with. The sooner he got back to his normal appearance and voice, the better.

Gwaine eyed him with an edge of suspicion, before his face lightened. “Aye. And who’s asking?” he slurred out, lifting his half-empty tankard in salute.

“Din-” he started, but stopping himself. What was the alias they agreed on again? He cleared his throat, trying to keep his tone deep and elderly. “Er, Escanor. My name’s Escanor.”

Gwaine pulled his arm away from its perch around a blonde woman’s shoulders, leaning into the table. He set his drink down, face unreadable. “And what can I do for ya, _Escanor_?”

Oh crap, Gwaine was acting suspicious, could he see right through him? No, if he had, Dinadan would have been run through where he stood by now. He could still pull this off, if he was careful.

Dinadan pulled a sack of gold out of his pocket, from the pair of trousers he’d borrowed from Lord Austin. He tossed it onto the table, sack skidding past the tankards and into the knight’s grasp. “I hear you’re good at arm-wrestling. Care for a challenge?”

Gwaine, as anticipated, couldn’t turn down a chance at competition. Especially not as drowned in ale as he was at the moment. His mouth tugged into a moonish grin as he stretched his arm out and set his elbow against the table. He reached into his pocket with his other arm, and tossed a similar coin sack up so it rested next to the one Dinadan put on wager.

Wearing the visage of ‘Escanor’, Dinadan squatted and placed his elbow on the table, arm running parallel to Gwaine’s. He made another attempt at a conniving, arrogant smirk.

“I’ve beat men bigger than you,” said Gwaine cockily. He gave his red-haired beaux the shite-eating-est grin Dinadan had ever seen. “Play referee will ya, Joanne?”

Joanne the red-head blushed and giggled with a coy nod. She exchanged a surly glance with the blonde sitting across from her, and they both dove out laughing. Dinadan could only huff. Girls were strange as is, and it appeared women were only weirder. More reasons to be immensely glad that he wasn’t _actually_ an adult yet.

Dinadan’s palm met Gwaine’s meaty, muscular fingers, both of their hands clasped firmly together. In this adult form, Dinadan had command of a great deal more strength than usual, but if this plan was supposed to end well then he’d need to figure out how to control it. Don’t grip too tight, don’t put too much strength into the push. Just as you practiced with Lord Austin.

Of course, Lord Austin wasn’t a big strong knight. Lord Austin wasn’t known for his daring and skill.

Then again, Dinadan didn’t need to _win,_ necessarily. He wasn’t even supposed to.

Joanne stood up at the head of the table, hand held up. “And…” she swung it down into a chopping motion. “Start!”

Dinadan knew Gwaine was strong, but this was just ridiculous. Who knew so much raw power could be pent up in something so small? Of course, Gwaine was notorious for his arm-wrestling abilities. He likely had practice. Considering the rumors that he was born and raised in a tavern, where arm-wrestling was both a passtime and a rite of passage, perhaps that was true. Perhaps Gwaine had more practice than Dinadan could ever hope to win against.

Dinadan strained his own muscles, threw a bit of his body weight into it. He could feel his face tightening and reddening as he pushed harder, yet still Gwaine’s arm remained as immovable as solid rock. And worst of all, the bastard wasn’t even breaking a sweat!

Of course, he wasn’t here to win. He was here to put up a good show, and lose. Make a scene, then pretend to be insulted by the loss and cast the spell on Gwaine as ‘retaliation’. That was the narrative he and Austin had agreed on. Easy enough.

A decent crew had gathered around, mostly to gawk at how, while Gwaine’s arm hadn’t moved, neither had Dinadan’s. Good. The more people who saw, the bigger of a deal this would be. While causing a scene wasn’t a _necessity_ , they needed to leave enough witnesses. They needed a paper trail. It would sure as hell make things easier for Lord Austin to swing in and make his move against Arthur.

The longer they struggled against each other, the less Dinadan wanted it to end. Crowds circling about, exchanging bets over his head, chanting names and platitudes and encouragements, strangers patting him on the back in appraisal at the ‘brave but foolish sod who thought he could face Gwaine and win’, at the ‘brave but foolish sod who was actually holding his own pretty well against Gwaine’.

“Pretty tough, are ya?” Gwaine inquired. His face had at long last adopted a bit of a reddish sheen. He let out a ragged chuckle. “Maybe I oughta throw you up against another meat-man I know. Name’s Perci-”

An arm fell.

Everyone in the tavern dropped their jaws in shock.

Then, the dam broke and all hell broke loose.

Cheering and screaming and taverns sloshing about. People shouting about how it was impossible, it didn’t make sense, no one had _ever_ -

Gwaine, dumbstruck, turned up to lock eyes with Dinadan and give him a shaky, lopsided smirk. “E-Escanor, didja say your name was?”

Dinadan nodded.

Gwaine stood up straighter, and walked over to ‘Escanor’. He gave him a good-natured pat on the back, then dragged his head down to Gwaine’s level to scuff up his hair. “You put up a decent fight. I appreciate a good challenge now and again.” He turned to face the shocked, celebrating, screaming crowd, stood on the table, and shouted, “Drinks on Escanor tonight, boys!”

And, despite having no money despite the gold Austin gave him as allowance for the wager, and the money he’d won off Gwaine in the arm-wrestle, Dinadan could only cheer right along with everyone else.

He wasn’t supposed to win, and yet he had. He was supposed to lose, and yet he hadn’t. This wasn’t according to plan. And yet, for the first time since Lord Austin adopted him, he found he didn’t care.

He didn’t care! He was sloshed to his ears with ale, and he didn’t care! He was standing on tables, snogging the tavern wench with the lazy eye, dancing along to Gwaine’s tavern songs, and losing himself in a headrush of camaraderie and alcohol, and he _didn’t care_.

They spent long hours, late into the night, talking about everything and nothing at all. Long after ‘Escanor’ ran out of funds, Gwaine was there to financially support their drinking binge in his place. Alcohol, Dinadan soon found, was a great deal like astral projecting. Drinking didn’t let you shed your mortal shell and fly high above the trees, but it sure as hell _felt_ like it.

Gwaine leaned in and sloppily put a hand on Dinadan’s shoulder. “Escanor,” he slurred. “Bravest man I ever met, y’are. Absolute lightweight but - hic! - that can be fixed. Arthur oughta - hic! - knight you.”

Dinadan laughed and nudged Gwaine back, both of them shaking and wobbling where they sat. “Naw, he wouldn’ wanna knight someone like me!” He fell into a hysterical, ale-induced laughter, not entirely sure why he was laughing in the first place but too drunk to care. “Nobody’s ever s’pposed to like _me_.”

Gwaine’s face flickered, and for the briefest of moments he almost looked not even half as drunk as he acted. Then the expression was gone, and his slur was more severe than ever. “Are you kiddin’? What’s not to - hic! - like?”

Dinadan slouched back in his seat, gaze unable to land on any one thing in the room. “Oh, I dunno. Austin says -” he cleared his throat and straightened his posture, and summoned his best Lord Austin impression. “ _I’m the only one who’s ever gonna love you. Not mom or pops or anybody else in the whole world!_ ” Dinadan laughed at the impression as if he’d just told the funniest joke on earth. “Oh! Oh! And - _You gotta kill him, Dinadan, cuz he’s not gonna kill himself!_ ” They both fell into a tumble of uncontrollable laughter, leaning on each other for support as wheezes racked their bodies.

When Dinadan spared a glance in Gwaine’s direction, he almost saw thoughts clicking in the knight’s eyes. Sober thoughts. But that didn’t make any sense. Gwaine had at least seven more tankards under his tab than Dinadan, and Dinadan was so drunk he could barely think straight.

Eh, but who cared? Gwaine’s sobriety was his own fault. Tonight, Dinadan was going to let loose for once in his life. This was the closest he’d gotten to astral projecting in six years, and he wasn’t going to pass it up.

After what must have been hours, the same tavern wench Dinadan had smashed faces with - a young woman named Meredith who was just a few years older than his true age -  yanked them both out into the street by their collars, telling them to go home already or she’d chop them up and feed them to her pigs. Perhaps it was his addled mind, but he couldn’t help staring on at her with besotted, star-struck eyes.

Dinadan and Gwaine slurred their drunken farewells as they split off in separate ways down the street, and he got just a few steps away before remembering - _oh, crap, the curse!_

“Wait!” Dinadan shouted, and Gwaine turned around to face him with half-lidded eyes. “I forgetted - forgot, forgot something. I need to do something. I gotta.”

Gwaine laughed. “Well - hic! - what is it you gotta do?”

“I don’t think I should.”

“Ah, we all gotta do things we don’t wanna. I don’t wanna do the early-morning - hic! - patrol tomorrow, but…”

Dinadan frowned. Austin would be disappointed if he didn’t achieve his whole purpose for going to the tavern this evening, the reason he disguised himself as an adult in the first place and challenged Gwaine to an arm-wrestling match.

But at the same time, he _liked_ Gwaine, and he didn’t feel too keen on causing him harm.

 _It’s not harming him_ , cajoled the voice in the back of his head that sounded a lot like Lord Austin. _It’s just a funny little spell. A prank, it’s a bit like a prank. And if that servant intervenes like we expect he will, the spell won’t even last that long. It’s just to keep him and that knight busy._

To keep them from saving the king.

_See? Now you get it!_

But...Gwen would be sad if her husband died, and Gwen was nice.

_Gwen’s a queen, and she hates magic. She’d hurt you just like mother did if she knew what you really were._

And as much as it pained him, that much had settled the issue.

He squeezed Gwaine’s wrist with his transformed strength, feeling Gwaine wriggle and writhe to as he chanted the spell.

 _“Forhwierfe mann_ _biþ_ _carlcat”_

Dinadan was not proud of himself for casting such an unpleasant curse.

Wiping tears he didn’t remember shedding, Dinadan whispered, “Master loves me. No one else.” But the more he said it the less he believed it.

* * *

 A hooded figure walked down the streets of the lower town.

He was of average build and had a healthy complexion, but aside from his smooth, unblemished hands and good-natured grin cast in shadow by the hood, no one could see much of him.

It was the otherworldly yet chivalrous aura he gave off that kept people at a distance (and kept the rumor mills churning for months after his departure). He seemed too mysterious to be trusted, but too pleasant to be a threat. He gave wholesome smiles to people who dared lock eyes with him, but never lifted his head enough for people to see under his hood.

At one point he walked up to Maria’s bead stall at the market and asked her in a honeyed voice, “Excuse me, my lady. Could you tell me where I might find Arthur’s manservant at this time of day? Do you know?”

To which Maria, who was already anxious on the best of days, replied, “U-u-usually he’s  - er - b-b-by the training g-grounds, s-s-si-sir. B-bu-but this morning - this m-morning he’s be-b-b-een running about the lower t-town.”

The man’s smile faltered. “The lower town, you say?”

“Y-yessir. The l-lower t-t-town. He - that is, er - um - he, he was looking for someone. S-Sir Gwaine’s gone missing. Been l-lo-looking for him a-all morning.”

“I see. Has he checked the tavern?”

“Tha-that’s the last place a-anyone’s seen him. S-sir.”

“Hmm. And I take it he’s come through here asking for Sir Gwaine’s whereabouts?”

“I-indeed. Sir. He - er - you see - he just l-l-left a few minutes ago. Y-you might s-s-still catch him. Take a-a-a left up ahead there, that’s w-where he w-went.”

The man bowed, and his navy cloak swirled just enough for her to notice a chainmail shirt and an embellished scabbard. He reached into his pocket and handed her a few silver coins.

“Thank you, my lady. You are most helpful.” And with a flash of a smile and a swish of his cloak, the hooded man was off.

Everyone was pestering Maria with questions for the rest of the week. And as for Maria herself, well. Let’s just say shy damsels were easily besotted with mysterious gentlemen.

* * *

Merlin, for his part, was not having an easy day.

He’d woken up Arthur at the usual time, only to forget that Arthur didn’t _want_ to be woken at the usual time. He wanted a half-hour lie-in, so he and his wife could cuddle under the sheets and do god knows what (Merlin also knew, but wished he didn’t).

So Merlin sauntered into the royal chambers with his usual ‘let’s have you lazy daisy’, only to find his master and his wife in a most vulnerable position. Then he had a goblet thrown at his head (Arthur’s endless supply of goblets was a thing of magic), and this time the rim of the cup actually sliced along his hairline.

So then Merlin had to go back and have Gaius tend to his surprisingly bloody forehead wound. But of course, Gaius was out on his rounds at this time of day and the two of them owned no mirrors, so Merlin had to just feel around his face with a wet rag and hope for the best. That was when Lady Nimona came in requesting her usual tonic, but shrieked and fainted at the sight of all that blood oozing down Merlin’s face.

Naturally, helping Nimona recover from her fainting spell and assuring her that he wasn’t undead took longer than it should have - all these noble types were horribly queasy - but at least he was good friends with Nimona, so she offered to help him clean his injury.

 _Then_ when he came _back_ to the kitchens to retrieve Arthur and Gwen’s breakfast, he got stopped by a rather antsy Sir Leon.

“Have you seen Gwaine?”

“Not this morning. Have you checked the tavern?”

Leon shook his head. “No, and he’s not in his room either. He didn’t stop by the physician’s chambers for a hangover tonic, did he?”

“He might’ve done while I was out, but I spent most of my morning there and I didn’t see him.”

“Alright, well. If you do find him, tell him he’ll be serving two days in the stocks.”

“Is he late for his morning patrol again?” Merlin asked with a chuckle.

Leon only grumbled and stormed away in response.

And Merlin thought nothing of it. He served breakfast, sorted Arthur’s paperwork, helped Gwen into a dress since her maidservant had the day off, did the laundry, had a whole pot of stew spilled onto him, did the laundry _again_ , and it wasn’t until an hour past lunch that he finally had time to polish the king’s armour.

Of course he didn’t get much time for that now did he? Not with Mordred accosting him just as he got the polish out.

“Ah! Merlin, I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”

Mordred seemed antsy too, perhaps more so than Leon. Which shouldn’t have been possible. Not to say Leon was incapable of loosening up, nor that he was the most uppity knight in the service (not by a long shot), but he _was_ rather high-strung most of the time. In fact Merlin often considered him the knight version of George, except Leon actually knew how to have fun.

Where was Merlin going with this again? There was a point somewhere in all this.

“Have you seen Gwaine?” Mordred asked.

“You guys still haven’t found him yet?”

“I checked the taverns,” Mordred said, a conspiratorial hush in his voice. He cupped his mouth and whispered into Merlin’s ear, “I got suspicious when he didn’t show up for training this afternoon, so I did some investigating at the Rising Sun.”

Merlin turned to share a wary glance with Mordred, and gestured for him to continue.

“The lady working the tavern last night -”

“You mean Meredith?” Merlin corrected.

Mordred rolled his eyes. “ _Meredith_ told me Gwaine was last seen with a man named Escanor.”

Merlin adopted a contemplative squint. “Hmm. Can’t say I’ve heard of him. Do you think this Escanor guy did something to Gwaine?”

“There’s more. Apparently he and Gwaine had a few drinks too many, and it loosened his lips up a bit. The tavern lady -”

“Meredith.”

“- says he also called himself another name. But only when he was _really_ drunk did he let this second name slip.” Ever the one for theatrics, Mordred gave a dramatic pause. “His second name was _Dinadan_.”

Merlin sucked in a breath. “Great. So now we know what Austin’s up to.”

“But why change targets? All during his visit he’s been after Arthur and the queen, but now switch to Gwaine? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Merlin snapped his fingers in epiphany. “Ah! It’s a distraction. He’s trying to lure us away from Arthur so Lord Austin can make his move.”

“Clever,” said Mordred. “Alright, one of us needs to explore the lower town while the other keeps an eye on the king.”

Merlin got up to his feet, abandoning the armour and polishing rag. “Alright, I’ll go look for Gwaine if you look after Arthur.”

“A-are you sure you want... _me_ to watch him?” Mordred pointed uncertainly to himself. It seemed that even after the last two weeks of protecting Arthur, the knight still doubted his own loyalty.

In truth, yes, Merlin was uncomfortable placing the Once and Future King’s wellbeing in the hands of his supposed murderer. But it was more convenient this way. Mordred had to attend some knight meeting later that day and he couldn’t miss it, so he had to stay in the castle.

Meanwhile, Merlin was a servant whose schedule - while busy - was flexible, duties performed in order of when and how he chose to perform them (provided that they got performed at all). He was only required in a given place at a given time whenever Arthur had want for him. And even then, Merlin wasn’t exactly known for his stellar attendance.

It made sense for Merlin to miss his chores, but it was out of character for Mordred.

It was hard, though. He’d spent the better part of ten years keeping Arthur’s head on his shoulders. It was his destined duty as Emrys to protect and guide the king. He was entitled to feeling a bit protective now and again. But as much as it pained Merlin to shirk off his self-imposed guard dog duty onto someone else, it was better this way. And besides - perhaps showing Mordred how capable he was would help boost his confidence.

Merlin clamped a hand down on his companion’s shoulder. “I believe in you, Mordred.”

Not for the first time since they began working together, Mordred’s eyes glistened like a starstruck maiden. “Thank you.”

“Take care of the king form me, alright?”

“I won’t let you down, Emrys.”

Merlin smiled and nodded at him, before running down the corridor and navigating his way out of the citadel. Polishing could wait. He had a knight to save.

But before Merlin could continue his path down to the lower town, two guards stopped him just at the palace gate. “Oi! Merlin, we could use you for a mo’.”

“Not a good time, Simon!” Merlin called out, running through the gate.

“C’mon, it’s important,” the guard - Simon - urged. “Tibalt’s hurt.”

Oh well that just changed everything. Curse Merlin and his stupid bleeding heart.

A sigh. “Alright, what is it now?”

Tibalt was a man of medium height but stocky build, who was so touched in the head he made even Merlin seem like a genius. He had a knack for getting into sticky situations, and Merlin always had to patch him up after every well-intentioned accident of his.

This time it seemed he’d gotten back into the habit of rounding up strays again. Lumped up in one beefy, hairy arm was a black cat with large honey-coloured eyes that seemed like it would much rather be literally anywhere else. All up Tibalt’s forearms and shins were superficial scratch marks.

Merlin put his hands on his hips. “Tibalt, what did I say last time about street cats?”

“Don’t pick them up,” said Tibalt, sounding thoroughly scolded.

The cat seemed to perk up at Merlin’s presence, and renewed its efforts to scramble out of Tibalt’s grasp. Tibalt only held it tighter.

Merlin squatted down at eye-level with Tibalt, who was sitting down on the ground. He held out his arms. “Let me take the cat, Tib. I’m headed for the lower town, I can let him out there.”

“But you don’t understand,” Tibalt whined childishly. “Eggy was trying to get _into_ the castle when I found him.”

“Eggy?”

“That’s what he named the cat,” Simon explained, more than a bit exasperated.

“Ah. Well, maybe I can see if Mary’s in need of any new mousers, but first you’re going to have to let go of...Eggy, and go see Gaius. Those scratches might be infected.” Truly, that was just a rouse to have Tibalt release the cat. Mary had just employed a new mouser a month ago, a fat white one they called Sir Owain.

Tibalt gave a subdued nod, before unloading the cat into Merlin’s arms. The cat, which had thus far come off as finicky and slightly manic, suddenly grew calm and still, as though melting in Merlin’s grasp. Not to say it was completely relaxed though, as it still had its ears pricked and its back tense. It looked up at Merlin and yowled.

“He likes you,” said Tibalt.

Eggy yowled again, and if cats could express a human range of emotions then Merlin would almost say it sounded frustrated or impatient.

Merlin gave Eggy a half-grimace, half-smile. “Y...yes. Great. Well - Simon, make sure Tibalt gets checked on, and I’ll deal with Eggy.”

Tibalt nodded, and allowed Simon to help him onto his feet and guide him towards the castle.

When the two guards disappeared, Merlin continued in his rush towards the lower town, making careful to cradle the cat so as not to upset it, but his efforts didn’t seem to quell its persistent meows. All the same it didn’t try and leave his grasp, so he had to be doing _something_ right.

He dropped Eggy onto the ground at the first chance he got, setting it down right beside the water pump. “Alright, scram. I’ve got places to be.”

Eggy just stared up at him expectantly and meowed again, even pawed at his boots a bit.

Merlin knelt down and scratched it between the ears. It seemed resistant at first, but eventually relented and closed its eyes with a purr. “You’re an odd one, you know that? But I can’t stay you know. I have to go look for my friend Gwaine.”

The purring stopped and Eggy’s eyes snapped open.

“Everyone’s worried about him,” Merlin went on to say, not entirely sure why he was talking to a cat. Animals were just so easy to talk to, he supposed. You could unload all your thoughts and worries on them, and they wouldn’t judge you either way.

Perhaps he could take Eggy in as a pet after all. It wouldn’t be his first pet, so he knew he was responsible enough. The last time he’d owned a pet was when he brought that dog statue to life. He named it Tiberius and it followed him everywhere - that is, until the enchantment wore off at the end of the week and he had to return the statue to its rightful place in the courtyard. Sometimes when no one was looking, Merlin would pet the statue under the chin (Tiberius’s favourite spot).

He kept petting some more to lull the cat back into purring, but Eggy was fully attentive now, so Merlin deemed the whole thing a lost cause. He rose to his feet and dusted off his pants. “Well Eggy, it’s been fun. But I really ought to go figure out where that drunk fool has sodden off to.”

Eggy let out a loud, desperate, almost pained yowl, eyes full and yellow and locked firmly on Merlin.

His throat closed up.

_A wounded bastet in the catacombs, moaning and cowering behind a wall. Big yellow eyes filled with pain. Reaching a hand out to its snout. The bastet nuzzling into his open palm, before limping off. The pathetic whimpers of a transformation. A girl cowering in the corner of a dark, dingy alcove._

Eggy looked up at him and cocked its head, and if he didn’t know better he’d say it was looking at him with concern.

Ah. He was crying.

Merlin wiped his eyes.

“Sorry, Egg, it’s just…” He chuckled. Why was he apologizing to a cat? This day was already so bizarre. “...you reminded me of someone I used to know. Someone who - anyways. She was a bastet, and a druid. And no matter how much I loved her, no matter what I did to keep her safe...well. It was Uther’s reign, wasn’t it? You can imagine how it ended.”

Eggy let out a small meow and nuzzled into his ankle, and he bent over to stroke its back. “It was a long time ago. But thanks anyway, I appreciate it. She was a druid, so I never really got the chance to mourn her, y’know?” Merlin wiped his eyes again. “Now. I’ve got a trouble-maker to track down. C’mon, Egg.”

The cat seemed to pause for a moment, before meowing somewhat forlornly and trotting along after Merlin’s footsteps.

And thus they carried on in this way for the next few hours. Merlin would scurry up and down the lower town streets, fighting against the slowly setting sun, chatting up friends, occasionally lending hands when needed, and taking witness testimonies from everyone he could find who was at the Rising Sun last night. And all along, the cat would be scamper about in his shadow, meowing at him and pawing at his leg from time to time.

It was close to sunset when Merlin found a hand grip his shoulder from behind. His face lit up, half-expecting it to be Gwaine…

But instead it was a tall hooded figure with a downturned head to hide their face.

“Merlin,” the figure said. He looked like a druid with the cloak and mystic vibe, but he had a sword at his hip and looked a lot more muscular than most druids he knew. Perhaps a druid gone rogue?

“Can I help you?”

“I come from Helva,” said the mystery man. “With important information regarding the fate of the king.”

At his feet, Eggy perked up with an eerie sort of intelligence, yellow eyes narrowed and body tensing protectively in front of Merlin. Weird cat.

“From Helva?” Merlin gave a contemplative look. “Is this to do with his destiny?”

The man nodded. “I have friends that are Seers. They sent me here with a message saying that your -”

Merlin grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into an alley, cat following with a perplexed and shocked look. From what Merlin could see of the man’s face under his hood, the informant had an expression to match.

Sheepishly, Merlin explained. “Sorry about that. I just figured we’d need a bit more discretion. This is the fate of the kingdom, after all.”

The man nodded, still a bit jostled by the sudden movement. “You’re right, of course.”

“So what news do you have for me?”

“The vision you were shown.”

“Of Mordred killing Arthur? What about it?”

Eggy yowled as though it’d just stubbed his toe. Both men ignored it for the most part, but the hooded figure did pass it a somewhat amused glance.

“My friend,” said the man. “His name is Falk, and he’s a Seer.”

Wait. That name niggled at something in the back of his mind. Falk, Falk, Falk…

“Oh! Percival’s uncle. I remember him. I didn’t even realize he was still alive.” Merlin frowned. “Hang on, are you saying his madness from all those years ago, was because he was developing _Seer powers_?”

The man nodded gravely. “And he has foreseen the same future you did, that Sir Mordred will be the one to kill Arthur in battle.”

Eggy yowled again, this time half disbelieving and half horrified. Merlin rubbed his temples. It really was a long day if he was assigning complex human emotions to a cat.

“So there’s really no way to stop it then?” Merlin asked, trying (and failing) to keep the hurt out of his voice. “But he’s good now. He’s been helping me protect Arthur for weeks now. I even _told_ him about his destiny, and he seems just as determined as I to prevent it.”

The man shrugged. “It’s hard to say with fate. But Falk believes that your friendship with the knight is a sign of changing times.”

Merlin quirked his brow in a way inherited from Gaius, and motioned for the man to elaborate.

“Originally,” the man continued. “You and Sir Mordred were to be enemies. You weren’t supposed to get along, and it was going to be your act of pushing him away that drives him into Morgana’s arms.”

Oh god. So that future he saw, the future _plaguing_ his dreams for months...he would be the cause of that?

“B-but I don’t hate him anymore,” Merlin defended. “I got over myself and I extended the olive branch. We’re friends now, I can’t imagine pushing him away.”

“And that’s why Falk tells me the future has become uncertain,” he said. “He sent me here with information he believes will irreparably derail destiny and prevent Arthur from dying in a few months.”

“A _few months_ ?!” Merlin exclaimed, to which Eggy yowled in kind. “I didn’t even know - I didn’t - I thought - I thought I had more _time_.”

The man patted the air in a placating gesture. “That’s why I’m here, as I said. Falk thinks my presence and my information can ‘shake things up’, as he put it.”

Merlin breathed a few moments to compose himself. “Alright. So what’s this information you have for me then?”

Surprisingly, the man gestured to the cat currently swishing his fluffy tail beside Merlin’s foot and staring skeptically up at the hooded figure. Its ears were pressed back, but had yet to make good on its hostile stance. Merlin couldn’t help but be endeared that a cat he’d known for less than a day was willing to protect him. Perhaps he would have to take Eggy in as a pet after all.

“The cat you have with you,” said the man. “Do you know who he is?”

Merlin frowned. “So it’s a ‘him’ then.”

Eggy made a noise that sound suspiciously like a scoff.

“Do you know who he is?” the man repeated, to which Merlin shook his head. “Well, last night, as I’m sure you know, Sir Gwaine went missing from the tavern. There, he encountered Lord Austin’s magically inclined servant Dinadan.”

“Right - wait. How do _you_ know that?”

The man shrugged. “I only know as much as Falk told me. He’s a Seer, remember. He predicted this, and warned me accordingly. He said that Dinadan would cast a spell on Sir Gwaine to keep you and Sir Mordred busy while Lord Austin attempted to kill the king.”

This time, Eggy let out a sharp, almost pained meow. Merlin bent down to stroke the cat and scanned for injuries. None, nothing to elicit such a reaction. Passing Eggy off as just a generally bizarre creature, Merlin carried on as if it hadn’t happened.

“That was as we suspected,” Merlin said. “But not to worry. We split up the tasks. Mordred’s keeping an eye on Arthur while I go looking for Gwaine. Falk didn’t tell you where he is, did he?”

The informant nodded, and gestured once more to the cat. “He’s right here with us now.”

Merlin froze. Wait.

A cat trying to get into the castle. A cat that was protective of Merlin. A cat with a suspicious amount of cognizance. Gwaine, missing and last seen with Austin’s sorcerer.

Oh.

Oh god.

Oh _hell no_.

“G-Gwaine?” Merlin stammered in disbelief, crouching down low to meet Eggy’s - Gwaine’s - the cat’s gaze.

The cat, for his part, just seemed expectant and unamused, scowl on his whiskered mouth and eyes half-lidded in petulant frustration. The cat let out a terse, clipped meow.

“Er, um. That is.” Merlin let out a hysterical laugh. Of _course_ Gwaine was Eggy, because his life apparently wasn’t complicated enough as it was. He should have expected this.

This wasn’t even the first time he’d encountered an animal transformation spell! There was the time Arthur was given donkey ears, the time the kitchen maid was turned into a beetle by a man whose advances she had rejected, the time Morgana turned Gwen into a deer - hell, even Merlin himself had spent a week as a dove just last year!

So yes, he should’ve seen this coming. He could only blame his month of vacation on this oversight.

“Just to be sure,” Merlin said, still not sure how to tread in this situation. “If you’re Gwaine and you can understand me, stomp your foot - er, paw - three times and meow twice.”

Entirely as expected, the cat did so.

And a shadow of horror descended upon Merlin’s heart.

He had cried in front of this cat. Talked about Freya in front of this cat. Talked about Arthur’s destiny with the friend of a Seer in front of this cat. Talked about magic and visions in what might well be an incriminating conversation, in front of this cat.

And this cat was a knight of Camelot.

Granted, he didn’t expect Gwaine to clamor for his execution. But Gwaine had once drunkenly confided that the only woman he ever truly loved, Esmeralda, was killed by a vengeful sorcerer. So it was hard to anticipate what his reaction might be to Merlin allying himself with magic-users.

Merlin rubbed the back of his neck, unable to look the cat - _Gwaine_ \- in the eyes. “Er, sorry about that. I didn’t know you were...that is...um. This is awkward.”

The cat meowed in what Merlin now knew to be agreement.

“Listen, when I was crying earlier. Could you just. Um. Forget that happened? Forget all this happened? That’d be great. Thanks.”

Gwaine meowed again, but this time Merlin couldn’t interpret the emotions behind it. He tried not to let that bother him.

“So now that we know where Gwaine is,” said Merlin. “I guess I ought to go see if Mordred needs my help.”

“He will,” the informant said ominously.

As Merlin rose to his feet, he snagged a peek under the hood. The slope of the man’s jaw seemed strangely familiar, and Merlin knew to trust his instincts. Who was he?

“That is to say," the man continued. "He’s going to need us. According to Falk, by the time we get to the castle, Dinadan will have indisposed Sir Mordred. Apparently the two - well, three - of us will end up running into the dining hall just after Lord Austin poisons the king’s food. They’re having dinner together with the queen tonight. Sir Mordred isn’t allowed in this private gathering, so he’s busied himself following Dinadan. Which means -”

“Which means the king is unattended,” Merlin surmised. “ _Crap_.” He turned to Gwaine with a clever smirk. “You up for a little adventure, old friend?”

Gwaine meowed in anticipation.

The informant straightened his back. “If I’m not imposing, then I think I might like to join you. You may need a pair of more combat-experienced hands neutralizing Lord Austin, since Gwaine is currently indisposed.” Gwaine responded with an indignant meow.

“So you can fight then,” said Merlin.

The man tapped the pommel of his sword. “I was a knight once, long ago.”

Merlin nodded and flashed a smile, already hurrying his way out of the alley. “Shall we?”

* * *

 After nearly ten years of bustling about doing things no one understood (or tried to), the castle staff had all learned that if Merlin was doing something strange, chances were it was to save the king.

Gwen was the first person to realize this, when he asked to borrow a wheelbarrow and carted a dog statue into his room, only for Valiant’s shield to fail him the next day. She paid close attention in the following years, and eventually noticed that Merlin tended to get particularly weird once in a while, and those times usually coincided with times when Camelot or Arthur was under threat. Merlin would act weird, then a little while later something bad would happen and he would be the only one who knew what was going on, and then the threat would somehow resolve itself.

Gwen wasn’t the only one to pick up on this, either. Within months after Merlin’s arrival, the servants had all caught onto his antics. No one talked to him about it, though, or offered to help. Mostly because he got uncomfortable whenever someone did, as though he was afraid of receiving assistance. Or rather, afraid of the notion that someone had figured him out. Why Merlin felt the need to hide these things, no one knew. The kitchen staff had a betting ring going in regards to just what dastardly secrets Merlin had.

It didn’t take long for the guards figure him out too, and for everyone else to decide to just let Merlin do his thing without getting in his way. One time George learned this the hard way, when stopped him from breaking all the royal vases. Later that afternoon Arthur almost died of a spontaneous illness, but then Lady Winifred’s maid told George to just let Merlin do this thing, so he did. The next day, Arthur was miraculously cured and all the vases in the west wing were smashed to bits. No one understood the correlation, but no one wanted to arouse suspicion and put Camelot’s friendliest good luck charm at risk.

Conversation with the knights - for somehow, Merlin’s presence in Camelot had torn down social barriers and allowed peasants to speak comfortably with nobles - revealed that the king’s manservant was just as strange on patrols and quests. Always saying “I’ve got a bad feeling about this”, only for bandits to suddenly rush on them just seconds later. Always telling them not to touch this artifact, not to trust that person, not to anger those spirits. The king never listened, naturally, and they always got in trouble because of it. Arthur may have scoffed at their superstitions, but almost all the knights in Camelot had learned to take Merlin’s funny feelings seriously.

And that was the thing, though. They all loved their king, pledged their undying allegiance to him, admired him for his knowledge of strategy and his leadership - but no one could deny that he was about as observant as a pebble.

Everyone in the castle, aside from the king himself, knew Lord Austin was up to something. No one said anything because that just wasn’t the way of things, of course, because Merlin knew what he was doing and everyone trusted that.

The fact that just a week ago, Enid the kitchen maid saw him standing on the castle turrets holding a horseshoe and intentionally letting himself get struck by lightning (only for the knights to suddenly be cured of their clumsiness), seemed to prove their suspicions.

The fact that Sir Aglovale saw Merlin rushing towards the royal dining hall with a street cat under his arm and a cloaked stranger close behind, proved this as well.

It was also bloody alarming. Especially since Sir Aglovale had only been knighted five days ago, and wasn’t yet acclimated to the enigma that was Merlin.

“Did that servant just-” he murmured to his friend Sir Pinel and pointed towards Merlin with wariness and confusion.

Sir Pinel chuckled. “That’ll be Merlin, off saving our king again.”

“But how does that-”

“After a while you just learn not to question it,” Sir Pinel said with a shrug.

“Does His Highness know what his servant’s up to?” Sir Aglovale asked, wrinkling his nose.

Another chuckle. “Probably not. Nine years and he still hasn’t caught onto Merlin’s heroics. All due respects to our beloved king, but he seldom notices these things.”

“Should we tell him?”

“He probably wouldn’t believe us, so no. Just wait, though - in a few hours we’ll be brought to a knight’s summons and the king will be telling us about some threat on his life that was recently neutralized.”

To Sir Aglovale’s consternation and everyone else’s amusement, that was exactly what happened. Two hours later, the knights were brought together so Sir Leon could inform them about how Lord Austin had just been caught poisoning King Arthur’s food. Luckily, Merlin managed to give him the antidote in time, and an unnamed ally had dispatched the traitor before he could flee. However, his ensorcelling manservant was still at large, so the knights were to set up a search of the city. No one - save Sir Aglovale - seemed shocked by the news.

Sir Pinel jabbed him in the ribs playfully. “See, what’d I tell you.”

Regardless, Sir Aglovale could only shake his hand and raise his hand. “But Sir Leon, what about the cat?”

Sir Leon turned to him with a mirthful look. Not even asking Sir Aglovale what cat he meant or why it even mattered, the First Knight simply said, “That was Gwaine.”

Sir Aglovale went to to bed that night more confused than ever before.

* * *

 This was becoming a pattern. This, sitting in Gaius’s chambers and trying to staunch blood. Only now it wasn’t to get stitches in his arm but to put a cold compress to his face.

Was it too late to hand Merlin his resignation and back out of all the nonsense? Yes. Yes it was. And no matter how much his face throbbed with the effects of Dinadan’s swelling spell, he refused to back down from this.

“Th’orry,” Mordred muffled out between his still swollen cheeks, trying to apologize for the fiftieth time that evening.

Gaius clucked his tongue, pushing the compress back onto his face. “What did I say about speaking, Mordred, the curse will wear off faster if you’re silent.”

That did nothing to soothe his nerves. He had been tailing Austin’s manservant, but got careless enough to get caught and enchanted in a way that caused his entire body to puff up like an overflowing waterskin. If not for Merlin’s mysterious new friend Arthur would have been dead by now, and it would have been Mordred’s fault.

Perhaps it wasn’t out of maliciousness that he ended up killing his king, but through carelessness. Perhaps Merlin was wrong to put so much faith in him.

After Arthur had collapsed to the floor in a poison-induced seizure, Merlin and company barged in just in time for the hooded man to duel Austin, with Gwaine (who was a cat now for some reason) trying to help by clawing and biting at Austin’s shins. Merlin had relayed to him how while those two were distracted, he had the opportunity to cast every last healing spell he knew - only for none of them to work. Because he may have been Emrys, but that didn’t mean he was good at everything.

“So you…” Gaius held his temples in exasperation, and Mordred couldn’t say he disagreed with that sentiment. “... _invented_ a spell. Just like that.”

“I was desperate!” Merlin shouted in defense. “It was the heat of the moment, what was I supposed to do?”

“Not constantly defy the laws of magic,” is what Mordred wanted to say, but through the swelling and the cold compress all that came out was, “Mmf murf ffmm murfummfrmm.” As a result, Gaius and Merlin both ignored him.

“Well, what was this spell then?” Gaius asked.

Merlin cleared his throat. But what he said was no spell Mordred had ever heard of. No, the noises that spilled from his lips could hardly be considered human. It sounded less like a voice and more like a windchime or a bell, softly tinkling in earnest. The ‘spell’ itself had an otherworldly sound to it, as though whispered into his ear on a stormy night, whispered lovingly by a creature from far beyond this mortal plane. It felt like a small wooden fishing boat floating on a calm lake, warm summer wind gently nudging it to shore. It felt like Emrys.

“What was _that_?” Gaius cried. Mordred tried to do much the same, but again his words were muffled by the compress on his face.

“The spell?” Merlin gave off the impression that he didn’t truly grasp how remarkable he was, as though he hadn’t just invented a spell by creating sounds no human mouth should have been able to form.

Just as Gaius started to speak, probably to say something about how Merlin continued to astound him, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Gaius called.

It was a man in a deep hood, the one Merlin claimed to have befriended this afternoon, who crept into the room with a sleeping cat in his arms. Which was Gwaine. Because Gwaine was a cat.

“Found him,” said the figure with an obvious tinge of relief in his voice.

In the ruckus of fighting Austin, looking for and failing to find Dinadan, and saving Arthur’s life, their little feline friend had all but vanished.

“Gwaine!” Merlin exclaimed, and ran up to the figure to receive the cat into his grasp. At this exchange of hands, Gwaine’s eyes opened. He meowed groggily. “Where the hell were you?!”

Gwaine meowed again, more awake now, and this time more defensive. Yes, this was Gwaine alright. Somehow, in some way, it was Gwaine. He pounced out of Merlin’s arms and landed onto Gaius’s table, then turned to Merlin and meowed a bit more. Merlin seemed to be the only one who even remotely understood what the knight-turned-cat was trying to say, and oddly enough managed to spin intelligent responses to each of his meows, using his knowledge of Gwaine to predict exactly what the meows were supposed to mean.

“Do you know how to fix this, Gaius?” asked the hooded figure, gesturing to Merlin and Gwaine deep in their peculiar conversation.

Gaius jolted. “Ah, sir. How...how do you know my name?”

The hooded figure took a long moment to weigh his answer, before finally saying, “You’re the court physician. Everyone knows your name.”

Merlin and Gaius - and Gwaine, even - seemed just as doubtful of that answer as Mordred was. This man was hiding something, but right now wasn’t the time to grill him on it.

Gaius did not relent in giving this stranger The Eyebrow, but at least provided an answer for all their sakes. “We’re in the process of preparing an antidote as we speak.” He motioned towards the herbs and vials laid out before him, and the mortar and pestle in Merlin’s hands.

“Good.” Gwaine meowed in agreement. “How long should it take?”

“About an hour at the most. Dreadfully sorry for the wait, Sir Gwaine, but these things do take time.”

Gwaine just shrugged good-naturedly, leapt onto the ground, moved to sit closer by the fire, then resumed his nap. Unfortunately, his nap didn’t last long, as within moments Arthur and the rest of the Round Table came barging into the chamber.

“Sire! Sire wait!” Leon exclaimed, scurrying in Arthur’s footsteps. “You should be _resting_ , sire! You just endured a terrible ordeal!”

“I feel fine, Leon,” Arthur insisted. He rolled his shoulder. “Better than fine, actually. The best I’ve felt in a long time.” He turned to Mordred. “Are you alright?”

Mordred started to speak, but his cheeks were still too thick and pillowy to articulate a reply, so he just gave a thumbs-up.

Arthur began to ask a question, but Merlin dove in before he could. “Lord Austin’s servant, Dinadan, did that. He’s a sorcerer.”

Arthur nodded grimly. “I see. And where is he now?”

“Currently at large, sire,” said Elyan who was scanning the room, no doubt scouring for any sign of Gwaine and being disappointed to find none. Merlin had told the knights that Gwaine had been enchanted (although only Leon knew the exact nature of the enchantment), but none of them had had the chance to check on their enchanted friend, what with the chaos of searching after Dinadan’s whereabouts.

Another nod. “Leon, I want every knight-”

“Already taken care of, sire,” said Leon. He suddenly looked sheepish, almost ashamed at having done things his king hadn’t ordered of him. “The queen gave the orders, sire.”

“And where is Guinevere now?”

“Dealing with Lady Austin,” said Percival. “Lord Austin’s wife and widow.”

Arthur got that look on his face that he always did when he was thinking of Gwen and how proud he was of her, but the moment passed and he replaced it with a look of steely indifference. His War Room Face, as Merlin called it. “Very well. And is it true that Gwaine has been enchanted?”

Gaius nodded. “Indeed. He’s in no state to give any reports, sire, but Merlin and I are working on an antidote right now.”

“What happened to him?”

“Go see for yourself, sire,” said Merlin, snickering. “He’s by the fireplace.”

The king and his knights all crowded towards the fireplace. Mordred’s neck was still swollen enough that it was hard to turn, so he couldn’t tell how they reacted to discovering Gwaine’s furry situation - but if the peals of laughter were any indication, then they must have reacted much like Mordred had.

Even Gaius was chuckling to himself. Hell, even the mysterious hooded figure was failing to stifle his own amusement behind a smooth, manicured hand. And no amount of yowling and hissing from Gwaine at the indignity of being laughed at could change how hilarious it was. In fact, it only made it worse.

After the knights exchanged a few well-aimed cat puns and taunts, they all begrudgingly recollected themselves in favour of a more serious discussion.

“When I first woke up,” said Arthur to Merlin. “You told me that Lord Austin had been killed by a man he’d met in the lower town today. Where is he now, I’d like to show my thanks?”

“I’m here, my lord,” said the man with a dutious bow, causing Mordred to almost jump out of his skin in surprise. That man was painfully adept at blending into walls and going unseen. Mordred had forgotten he was even there to begin with.

“You have my gratitude,” said Arthur. “Without you, I may be dead now.”

“Oi!” Merlin scoffed. “I helped too you know.”

Arthur snorted and rolled his eyes. “And what would you plan to do against Lord Austin, with those twiggy arms of yours?”

“You’re just jealous,” Merlin sniffed in mock offense.

“Of what, your -”

Leon cleared his throat in an attempt to get the king back on track.

Realizing his error, Arthur straightened up his posture and continued speaking to the hooded man in his ‘King Voice’. “At the very least, Lord Austin would have gotten away. You dealt with a traitor in my castle, one whom I’ve been suspecting but unable to gather evidence against.”

They all knew that wasn’t true, of course, because when Arthur _did_ suspect someone, he managed to find evidence against them in a matter of days. If Arthur had thought ill of Lord Austin, he’d have been executed within days of his arrival. No, this was a matter of pride.

With that mischievous glint in Merlin’s eye, Mordred could only guess how he’d be teasing the king later tonight.

The man bowed again. “The pleasure is all mine, my lord. Anything I can do to help.”

“Name your price,” said Arthur with the small, diplomatic, and partly impressed smile he reserved for when one of his subjects did something that pleased him. “Anything within reason shall be your reward.”

The man shook his head. “I seek no reward, my lord.” He faltered for a moment. “Actually, there is one thing.”

“Request it and it’s yours,” said Arthur.

“I would like a moment of your time, if you’re not too busy.”

Arthur shrugged. “Now’s as good a time as any. What would you like to say?”

The man shifted from foot to foot, unable to fully put voice to the words on his tongue. “I...I come from Helva, my lord.”

Arthur and the rest of the knights stiffened imperceptibly, which Merlin and Mordred both noticed and were slightly disappointed by. “And?”

“I didn’t live there long, but I was ill, you see, and the people of Helva nursed me back to health. My guardian at the time was a Seer, and he sent me here to Camelot with a warning.”

If they could have stiffened any further, the king and his knights would have done so. “And what is this warning he gave you?”

The man seemed especially uncomfortable trying to say this next bit. “You are...destined to die, my lord, a few months from now. On the battlefield, in a place called Camlann.”

Arthur’s War Room Face betrayed no emotion.

“But my guardian wanted to prevent this,” he continued. “So he searched for a way to prevent this future. And after nearly a year of searching, he may have found it.”

Merlin was the one who broke the tense silence. “What is it then?” he asked, not even trying to conceal his desperate curiosity. Mordred had to admit he was equally curious. If there was even the slightest chance he could prevent himself from becoming Arthur’s killer, he would take it in a heartbeat.

“He said that he knows of a way to defeat your greatest enemy, the one who would be leading the battle against you at Camlann.”

“Morgana,” Arthur breathed, and the only sign that he was bothered by any of this was the barest of tremors in his hand. “Your guardian knows of a way to defeat Morgana?”

The man nodded. “He said that during the year she disappeared, she was held captive by the Morgause who infected her with the venom of a creature called the hellemúþ.”

Gaius gasped, and all eyes turned to him.

“Do you know what this creature is, Gaius?” asked Arthur.

“Unfortunately so, sire. They’re a rare and vicious beast that only the most depraved of high priestesses dared touch. It truly speaks volumes about Morgause’s character that she would even _think_ -” Gaius shuddered. “- to use one’s venom.”

“And what is the nature of this…”

“Hellemúþ,” Merlin offered helpfully.

Arthur grimaced. “Yes. That. What’s the nature of its venom?”

For a long, terse moment, all eyes - human and cat alike - lingered on the physician as he descended into his mind and memories, an unpleasantly reminiscent look plastered to his face as he dragged up memories that he didn’t seem keen on recalling.

Just when they suspected he would remain reticent and frozen in thought like this for the rest of the night, Gaius spoke at last.“The hellemúþ,” said Gaius slowly and carefully. “Is best known for its cruel, sadistic nature. It has little regard for life, and only a force of powerful magic can awaken even an ounce of love or compassion in its heart. It craves power and control, and it relishes in torturing its victims.”

Come to think of it, Mordred had heard about the hellemúþ in his days as a druid. Mostly as a bedtime story, or a warning to keep kids from sneaking out at night.

 _"Don’t wander off in the dark, if you can help it,”_ a druid elder named Sadon had once told him. _“For there are forces even scarier than Camelot knights lurking in these woods.”_

 _“Scarier than knights?”_ had been Mordred’s frightened response.

Sadon nodded. _“Bigger and meaner than the king himself. The hellemúþ is a vicious monster that seeks only to make you scream. Be careful that it doesn’t bite you, though, for that is a fate worse than death.”_

_“What happens when it bites you?”_

_“Its venom infects your blood and makes you a meaner, angrier version of yourself that wants to destroy everything good in this world. You must be extremely cautious, Mordred. If you see a hellemúþ, run as far and as fast as you can. You must_ never _let it bite you.”_

Looking back, Mordred realized Sadon’s insistence that he never get infected was probably out of concern over Mordred’s cursed fate. Probably out of fear that the bite would be what caused the Once and Future King’s death.

Mordred let the compress slack from his face, granting him a bit more sight into the room. It seemed that while Mordred had wandered into his memories, Gaius had taken that time to explain the hellemúþ as Sadon had.

“So you’re saying that…” Arthur scowled, resting his chin on his fists in contemplation. “...you’re saying the reason Morgana is so hateful is because of this creature’s venom?”

Gaius nodded, and returned to his act of mixing herbs for the antidote with increased vigor. As though the physical exhaustion would make him forget the weight on his mind.

“So what then?” came Leon. “Is there a way to purge the venom from her body?”

The man nodded. “According to my guardian, there is a relic called the Ocarina of Aglæan. Apparently, whoever plays it can command any magical beast - or the venom of one. If you play this in Morgana’s presence, my lord, you may be able to coax the venom out of her body and restore her to her former self.”

Arthur’s face lit up, but tempered it with more of that diplomatic indifference. Trying not to get his hopes up, most likely. “Gaius?”

Gaius nodded weakly, mention of the hellemúþ still taking its emotional toll on him. Perhaps he’d encountered one before? Mordred made a mental note to ask him later. “Yes, sire. To my knowledge, this man’s claims may very well be the truth.”

Everyone in the room took in a sharp breath. This was it. This was their chance to bring back nice Morgana, fiery and rebellious and compassionate Morgana. The Morgana who rescued druid boys and had sleepovers at her maid’s house so she could ‘stay in touch with the ways of the people’. The Morgana who donned chainmail and fought for Ealdor. The Morgana who stood up to Uther and to tyranny and to all that was good.

But of course, Elyan had to pose the question. “And where can we find this...Ocarina of Aglæan?”

And suddenly reality came crashing down. Ah yes. They still lived in a world where Morgana was a hateful, angry witch who wanted to watch her loved ones burn.

“There is a story,” said Gaius. “Well, a legend. About the origins of the Ocarina, and its current whereabouts. And while this man’s words fill me with great hope for Morgana’s redemption, I am filled with equal concern. If the legends are true, then this road ahead of you will not be easy.”

Arthur chortled. “Quests never are.”

Gaius rose to his feet and held out a red vial before him. “But that story will have to wait a moment or two. For now - Gwaine, I have your antidote prepared.”

Gwaine, who had somehow found himself perched and purring on Merlin’s lap, gave a loud meow and skittered over to the physician, who poured the blood-coloured concoction into his feline maw.

Gwaine’s cat body went rigid in disgust, then he began to shake a bit, and then he collapsed on his side like a puppet with his strings cut. Everyone tried to ignore how uneasy the sight made them.

Merlin gingerly scooped Gwaine into his arms, headed for the steps to his room. “I’ll just leave him in his room until the transformation is complete. It’ll probably be painful. And embarrassing.”

Arthur waved his hand in permission, although it was more a courtesy than anything. They all knew the last thing Merlin sought was his master’s approval.

When Merlin closed the bedroom door behind him and Gwaine, all eyes snapped back to the hooded man. Even Mordred tried to completely remove the compress to get a better look at him, only for Gaius to immediately slap his hand in reprimand.

“This is a lot to take in,” Percival said with a low whistle.

“Yeah,” Arthur agreed. “And while I appreciate the information, and all you’ve done to save my life, there is one thing I still would like to know.”

The man pursed his lips, fully knowing and expecting what Arthur was going to say. “Anything, my lord.” But he didn’t seem so sure of himself when he said it.

“Your name,” Arthur said. “Your face. Please, lift that hood and tell us who you are. I can hardly trust someone I don’t even know, can I?”

The man sighed in defeat. His shoulders sagged into the downtrodden posture of a man who kept a dangerous secret, but found no more excuses to lie. Mordred suspected he and Merlin would have that same pose when their magic was eventually discovered.

Steadily but uncertainly, the man pulled two tan, flawless hands from the depths of his cloak and reached them to the rim of his hood. Gripping it tight, too tight, so tight his knuckles drained of colour, the man began to pull downward.

And the farther the hood went, the more of his face was revealed. And the more of his face that was revealed, the more horrified his onlookers became. Mordred had never seen this man, but everyone else clearly had. And by the ways their jaws unhinged, the history they shared probably wasn’t good.

Then the man’s hands fell to his sides, face fully exposed into an expression of shame.

A cacophony of disbelieving voices shouted out in unison.

_“Lancelot?!”_


End file.
